The Consequences of Selling One’s Soul
by sepler
Summary: There was no night… no day. There was no music, no joy, no Phoebus. No, none of that remained for poor Esmeralda. The rest of the world had completely vanished, leaving her nothing but... him. While in prison, Esmeralda accepts Frollo's offer. Book based.
1. Chapter 1

Cold.

That is all that remained for her. There was no night… no day. There was no music, no joy, no _Phoebus_. No, none of that remained for poor Esmeralda. The rest of the world had completely vanished, leaving her nothing but…

Cold.

And the occasional droplet of water, falling from the ceiling into a puddle in the corner. At first, the dripping was comforting, a way to track the passage of time. Then, it started to drive her mad, so much that she tried to catch the falling droplets in her hands, chilling her even further, rather than hear the sound.

But now not even that mattered. She did not even feel the little spiders and rats that occasionally liked to climb over her arms and legs, though she vaguely knew they were there. Nothing was left to care about.

It was just her and the cold.

There wasn't even a way to combat it, which was the worst part. She wore very little and had no blanket. If she tried to lie down, the chill of the dungeon floor seeped in through her skin. If she stood, her body stretched out and lost all the heat she'd been trying to keep in. If she was idle, the shivering rattled her. If she was active, she risked the possibility of sweating and making herself even colder.

There was nothing more hopeless than the complete lack of warmth.

It wouldn't have been so bad if she could just… remember… _something_. Who was she? Why was she here? Had her life always been like this? What was happening on the outside? _Was _there an outside?

Suddenly, there was a loud, unfamiliar sound. It was the creaks and groans of protest made by the hinges of the door that was _opening_.

This was not the little flap that came up ever so often to slide in food—when was the last time she'd eaten? She couldn't remember—this was the sound of the _actual _door sliding open.

There was a light on the stairs. It was just a lowly lit lantern, but it caused indescribable pain to her unaccustomed eyes and forced her to shut them tightly. She heard the murmuring of a few male voices and then a single set of footsteps heading her direction.

When she opened her eyes again, she could make out a tall, almost bat-like form towering over her from the staircase. The unfamiliarity of it all frightened the prisoner and she pressed herself into the wall, drawing her knees up against her chest.

"Who are you?" she asked, shocking them both with the sound of her own voice. When had she spoken last?

"A priest," replied the shadow. His voice made her trembling increase, but she could not name exactly _why_.

When she did not respond, he continued, "Are you prepared?"

Esmeralda furrowed her brow. Who was this person? What was she supposed to be prepared for?

She could not think of the right answer. "For what?" she asked, finally.

"To die." The shadow's voice sounded strained when he uttered this, but those two words gave Esmeralda the briefest glimpse of hope she'd seen in a long time.

"Will it be soon, then?" she asked, unable to keep some of the excitement from her voice.

"Tomorrow," he responded. It was scarcely more than a whisper, and the shadow's head dropped as he said it. Esmeralda suddenly felt like doing the same, though for entirely different reasons.

"Oh…" she said, "I was hoping it would be today. Tomorrow is like forever."

She buried her head in her arms, blocking out the new sights and sounds that had done nothing but brought disappointing news. She heard a rustle and lifted her head to find that the shadow had moved and was now knelt down beside her. The lantern had been abandoned on the steps and was blocked from her view, sending her back into darkness. An invisible hand reached out and stroked a tendril of her hair. She felt like his face was mere inches from her own, but could not be sure.

"Are you very unhappy?" he asked.

Happy? What was happy? She could honestly not remember the word.

"I am very cold," she answered, truthfully. She hoped that was a good enough answer. Questions of happy or unhappy were beyond her comprehension.

"This place… is… horrible. There is no light… no fire…" his amazed voice implied that this was the first time he had noticed their surroundings.

"It is cold," she repeated.

"Cold? Is that all you have to say?"

"It is all I know, sir."

Suddenly an emotion came rushing through her. It was the first one she had felt in a very long time, but she easily recognized it. Fear. The cold and hopelessness, she had endured… if for no other reason than she had no choice. But the fear _and _cold… without hope… was too much.

The prisoner began to cry. The shadow started and fell back a bit, but she did not notice. She sobbed and wept like a little child.

"I am afraid," she said. "I am so afraid. I want to get away from this place."

That profession changed everything. Suddenly, the shadow had uncurled its impossibly long body and now stood, somehow looking even taller than before.

"Then follow me," it commanded.

She looked at the skeletal hand that had been extended to her. With only a slight hesitation, she took it and stood.

When the bony fingers closed around hers, she started at the coldness of them. Esmeralda had been frozen straight to the core… the fact that she could sense cold coming from this hand frightened her_. The icy hand of death! _ Her fearful heart screamed.

She very nearly yanked her hand from its grip and resumed her ball on the floor. But then her mind spoke to her. _This is the hand of death. Death is release. Accept death and you will be free of this place. _

Ignoring her instincts to flee, she tightened her fingers around the pale hand and resolutely followed him to the steps.

When they had reached the place where the lantern had been set down, the shadow turned towards her once again. She felt long arms wrap around her and pull her body closer. The hands may have been icy, but the body was warm. She found herself leaning in and resting her head on the thin chest, trying to absorb the heat she found there.

It was a blissful eternity before the body pulled back, leaving her cold again. She felt a small vial pressed into her hand.

"Drink all of this," commanded the voice.

"What is it?"

"You must drink it if you wish to leave this place."

Without hesitation, she gulped down every last drop of liquid. Then another bottle appeared—this one full of water. Rather than handing it to her, the shadow took some of it in his hand and sprinkled it over her head, murmuring words in a language she did not understand.

It was all happening rather strangely, and she was suddenly feeling very sleepy. The tall form held her close for awhile longer, while she reveled in the warmth it provided. She was almost asleep when she felt a burning kiss on her forehead. It was like a fire… or a… torturer's brand. Had her rest been naturally caused, she would have been startled awake by the sheer heat of it. As it was, she only had a few seconds of consciousness left.

Before she finally succumbed to sleep, her mind reeled. _Where have I felt such kisses before?_

--

The prison guard cursed and quickly stashed his bottle of ale when he heard the door re-open and the priest emerge.

"Monsieur!" _What is he doing back already? He hadn't even been in there an hour!_ "I… ah… I didn't expect you back so soon!"

The priest arched eyebrow.

"Clearly," he said, faintly amused at how the large man scrambled off the table he had been propping his feet up on. When the guard had finally composed himself and was standing at attention once again, the he tossed him the keys.

"Depriving the public of an execution is hardly a way to keep your job, monsieur," the priest said simply.

"W-what?" he stuttered, "What do you mean?"

Archdeacon Dom Claude Frollo gave the guard a calculating look.

"The prisoner is dead."


	2. Chapter 2

Claude Frollo had spent the last few hours pacing circles in his small room. _Not much longer, now. Just a few more hours. It is almost time. _

He had not been able to rest since he returned from the prison this morning. His plan was delicate, with no room for error, but he had accounted for every detail and double checked everything. If nothing else, the archdeacon was meticulous.

He had seen to every aspect of the plan himself, for he trusted his precious girl's life in the hands of no other. The drug he had given her had to be carefully measured and prepared. But no man was better qualified for such a task than Claude, who had studied alchemy in secret since he was a boy.

The ingredients were tricky to procure as well. Most he had gathered himself, one way or another, but a few had to be acquired from some rather… disreputable sources. Fortunately for him, his position allowed for a certain amount of eccentricity, as many were afraid to question one of such pious and holy repute.

As for his _sources_… they knew better than to talk. When Claude Frollo denounced someone for witchcraft, their fate was sealed… guilty or not.

The only variable in his carefully constructed plan was Esmeralda. She had to accept him—at least temporarily—if this were to work. It had been the one factor that caused him worry—he would try to persuade her as easily as possible, but he did not know what he would have done if she rejected him. He would have done anything to convince her… even to the humiliating extent of falling to his knees before her and confessing all.

Her life depended on her trusting him.

In the end, though, his worries were unfounded. The poor child was so miserable that she trusted even a stranger to give her refuge. Now that she had accepted his help, he was certain his plan would succeed.

He just needed to wait now—_just a bit longer—_until dark. It would just be a matter of collecting her from the cavern where the bodies of the prisoners and the executed were laid.

And then she would be his.

Knowing that… the waiting seemed to be the most difficult part of all.

--

When the sun finally disappeared, an impatient Claude traveled swiftly to the cellar of Montfauçon, covered by his cloak and cowl and the shadows, in which he preferred to conceal himself. The time he had been waiting for had finally come. But he watched himself to be careful, lest he draw attention to himself in his excitement.

Once he entered the cavern, he lit a torch and began in his search. He used his sleeve to cover the smell. The stench of death was overwhelming, but it was a small price to pay for a far greater reward.

He found her quickly. She was resting on a stone tablet, unlike many of the other remains that littered the floor. Though he did not understand why she had been positioned thus, he was infinitely grateful that his beloved had been set apart from the piles of rotting corpses that he had expected to find her in.

Perhaps the guard had felt guilty for letting a famous prisoner die in his care? Perhaps he, too, had been taken by her loveliness.

_No! _Frollo scolded himself even as his fists clenched in jealously and anger. _You must not have those thoughts! She is _yours _now. No one will ever touch her. That is all that matters._

He forced himself to calm down as he stroked Esmeralda's cold forehead. She was so beautiful. Even in death, she was lovely.

Now, of course Claude knew that his soon-to-be wife was not, in fact, dead—the very hoax had been his own doing, after all. And yet, to any who examined her, she would appear so. He put his ear to her chest even as he pressed her wrist with two fingers. As expected, her pulse and breathing were nearly undetectable. But he knew what signs to look for, so he was certain she would awaken again.

With utmost care, he lifted Esmeralda off of the stone slab and cradled her in his arms. Once he had her situated, they left the cellar, into the fresh air of the darkened street.

Claude thought there was no greater pleasure than having his love like this in his arms. Her weight was nearly insubstantial and her cold body was unresisting against him. He felt like he could walk with her all night like this… but he needed to get back to the cathedral quickly, so not to be noticed.

_Another time, perhaps_.

Claude smiled as he remembered the last time he'd held her. It had only been this morning, yet he knew the memory would stay fresh forever.

Oh! How perfect it had been! The way she clung to him, the way she allowed him to wrap his arms around her shivering body… never had he felt so masculine. Her implicit trust and desperate need of his protection was a glorious burden for him.

He remembered the thrill he felt when she accepted and drank the potion—unknowingly acknowledging herself as his. And he remembered the way she whimpered and tried to lean back into his embrace as he pulled back to take the vials from his pocket.

Baptizing her had been something of an afterthought for him. His heart refused to believe she might actually die from his elixir, he thought of this as a precaution.When she awoke, they would start anew. The _witch_ would have been washed clean of all evil, leaving the _girl_ free to love him. They would be married—he would find a way—and live together in the home he had prepared for her.

And who could forget the kiss he had bestowed upon her? As her heartbeat slowed in his arms, he could not resist the temptation to kiss her. It had been a chaste, protective kiss… so unlike the one he gave her all those weeks ago when the captain—

_Must not think these things! Clear your mind, man._

Instead he imagined what it would be like to kiss her again, awake and alive. Or… perhaps for _her _to kiss _him._

Well, there would be plenty of time for that. For now, he would have to be patient.

He carried her into his room and laid her gently on his bed. Then he called for some of the lay-brothers to bring water for a bath. By his estimation, she would sleep for another twelve hours at least.

And there was much work to do between now and then.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Esmeralda noticed upon waking was warmth. It had been so long, she hardly recognized it for what it was. She only noticed the lack of shivering and the overwhelming feeling of safety. Was it a dream? Or had she died, despite what the mysterious priest had told her?

Esmeralda neither knew nor cared at this point. Before she even opened her eyes, she started to cry.

She felt a cool hand on her forehead and heard a vaguely familiar voice murmuring to her.

"It is fine, my love. You are safe. Please don't cry…" it was almost pleading, as if seeing her tears caused the owner great distress.

That last thing she wanted to do was upset her strange benefactor. If she was alive, this was the man who saved her. And, if she was dead, after all… perhaps this voice was an angel. Either way, she did not want to offend him.

She did her best to control her emotions and slowly opened her eyes. The pain that greeted her was too much and she had to close them again almost immediately.

Light. Her heart remembered light, but her eyes did not. They had spent so much time in darkness that the brightness she sensed from the tiny window burned painfully. _At least I know it wasn't a dream_, she thought.

"too bright—" she managed to whisper, slightly surprised at the sound of her own voice.

"Of course!" her rescuer gasped and she felt him leave her side. After a few moments of rustled fabric, he said, "There, that should be better. Open your eyes."

Esmeralda tried again and found herself far more comfortable now that a thin sheet covered the window, effectively dimming the light.

She began to feel around, trying to get a better sense of her surroundings. She was fully reclining, with pillows under her and several blankets on top of her. She wore a nightgown made of the softest fabric imaginable and… oh!... she felt clean for the first time in ages. Someone must have bathed and dressed her.

There was not a fiber in Esmeralda's being that wanted her to get up from her wonderful cocoon, but she felt like she should stand—or at least sit—up and speak with her benefactor. She began to rise, but a gentle hand pressed her shoulder and forced her back into bed. Gratefully, she complied.

"Shh… do not get up yet. You are very weak… you must rest a bit more."

"Where am I," she asked.

"You are safe, my dear, in our home… in our bed."

The statement startled Esmeralda and she sat up abruptly. _Our home? Our _bed_?_ Looking around, her stomach dropped. Whatever this place was… it was unfamiliar and gave her a bad feeling.

"This is not my home," she said slowly, trying to mask her panic.

When she sat up, the man quickly backed into the shadows. She saw his form but could not make out his face. Suddenly, she was very afraid. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest as she looked around, hoping for an exit she could run for.

She found none.

"Ah, but it is, child," the man said, seeming both soothing and smug at the same time. "This is where you live now. At least… for the next few days. We shall be moving soon... to a much more suitable place. Would you like that? A _real _home, nice and peaceful and far away from the harsh noises of this dreadful city…"

"NO!" she cried, trying to unwrap herself from the many covers and get out of bed. "No, I would _not_ like that! Where am I? I want to go to _my _home!"

As she struggled with the blankets, she managed to tangle them around her and fall over. The resulting feeling of being trapped and bound made her near hysterical.

She thrashed and screamed, "Let me out of this place! Why are you keeping me here?"

The man merely sighed and knelt down to help her. She noticed that he had placed a hood over his head—like a monk's cowl. She had a sick feeling, wondering if this man was who she suspected he was.

"Alas, I cannot," he said, methodically unwrapping each layer of blanket, seemingly unaffected by her struggling. "You belong to me, now. And this is where you shall live for the time being."

"NO!" she continued to cry over and over again. When her hands were finally free, she reached up and yanked the hood down from the man's head, revealing his face.

"It's you!" she gasped, recognizing the man as the archdeacon of Josas. "Let me go!"

Claude simply shook his head, continuing to unwrap the tangled cloth as if nothing had happened.

Finally the sheets were loosened enough for her to squirm out. With the fury of a child in tantrum, she sprang up and attacked the priest, beating on his chest as hard as her little fists would allow. He must have expected it, though, because he simply grasped both wrists and held them firmly so that she could not make contact. It was like fighting a wall.

The priest continued to hold her this way until the gypsy tired and ceased her struggles. When she was too exhausted to continue, she sank onto the floor in front of him and began to cry.

"Why? Why have you done this? I do not understand… what have I done to make you hate me? What offense have I committed that deserves this treatment?"

"Hate you? Oh, Esmeralda… don't you see? I _love _you!"

Her sobs quieted instantly. She looked at him dumbly. "What?" she whispered, unable to believe what she had just heard.

"I said that I _love _you, my sweet gypsy girl!"

For a long moment, neither said anything. Esmeralda was in disbelief. Claude was in anguish.

In the end, it was the priest that broke first. He fell to his knees beside her and confessed everything. He told her of the first time he spotted her, dancing below his window… and of the obsession that followed… how he could not get her out of his mind and could concentrate on nothing else. He told her that he had suspected her of witchcraft, how he believed her to be an angel of darkness, trying to steal his soul and succeeding. And he told her how he denounced her, had her arrested… and how, in the end, he could not let her be executed.

He left out the mention of Phoebus. He did not want to remind her that her young man was dead. Perhaps so much had happened to her over the last weeks that she might not even remember him.

Failing that, it was likely the bringing the captain up might send her into some sort of hysterics. She had enough reason to hate him already… best not remind her of the night the goblin monk spied on her rendezvous, killed her lover, and destroyed her life.

"You… you are responsible for all of it? You let me be tortured?" she asked, unable to keep the hurt from her voice. Esmeralda knew the man despised her… but to allow her to be placed on that table and tortured before his eyes?

And the notion that he _loved _her even then—it was too much. She laid her head down on her knees, afraid she might be sick.

"Yes… but," his eyes lit up, like he was excited. "You did not suffer alone. Don't you see? I have been tortured in my heart for months. I have felt a greater burning than even the executioner could have dealt. But… my dear girl… when you suffered, in that chamber, we suffered together. I brought a knife… you see… under my cloak. It hurt me to see you cry out… it nearly killed me! I scratched the knife over my chest, again and again to the rhythm of your sweet heartbeat when they strapped you to that awful leather table. When you screamed, I plunged it into my flesh. And I know, dear girl… without the slightest doubt… had you screamed again, that very dagger would have found a new home in my heart."

Esmeralda cringed. He was mad! He said the most appalling things… and yet he said them so tenderly, like a lover's declaration of his affections… which, perhaps, was what he believed them to be.

"I… I cannot do this!" she cried, shaking her head hard enough to rattle her brain. "Let me go. You are mad! Did you think… did you think that, by doing this, you would convince me to _love _you?"

She forced herself to look at him when she said this. His brow was furrowed in confusion and then raised again as his face took on a look of profound hurt. Esmeralda couldn't help but feel a bit of satisfaction when she saw that.

But, in a blink, the priest wiped all traces of emotion from his visage and looked at her coldly.

"You belong to me, gypsy. Love me or hate me, it matters not… you are mine." Then he grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her to the window. Ripping back the curtain, he forced her to look outside into the street.

"Do you see that?" he said, pointing to the Place de Grève, which could be seen from the high tower in which Esmeralda had been sequestered. "That is where you would have been today, if not for me."

"If not for you… I wouldn't have been there in the first place," she argued shakily. As she eyed the daunting gallows, she became slightly less sure of herself—the change was practically imperceptible to all but the archdeacon, who seemed all to eager to take advantage of the fact.

"Perhaps," he mused, "perhaps not. Who am I to speculate about such things."

As he spoke, she felt his hand creep up her bare arm… she knew she should pull away, but she was too frightened to move and his other hand was still gripping her firmly. "Today was your execution day, Esmeralda. Don't you see how that crowd has gathered? You should be hanging there… right about now, actually."

The wandering hand settled on her neck, caressing her throat lovingly. "Can you imagine it, Esmeralda? Your vision fading and sparkling in turns as you run out of air? You gasp for more but to no avail. All those people jeering and laughing at you… Tell me, dear girl, can you recognize any of the people from way up here? Do you see them as the very same people who once adored you for your dancing? But they do not adore you as I do, Esmeralda. Their love is fickle and fleeting… they turned from you the instant something more interesting passed their way. But… I shall never leave you. I shall love you forever."

His disturbing words and threatening caresses sparked the little bit of fire still left in Esmeralda's soul. She turned and violently pushed away from him.

"Then I would rather be dead! I would rather be down there, hanging in front of all those people, than accept _your _kind of love."

"Is that so?"

Esmeralda managed a nod, suddenly nervous by the deliberate way he was approaching her. His grin was positively lupine; the frightened gypsy could not begin to guess what madness was lurking behind his flashing eyes. She backed into a wall and gulped as he reached out and took hold of her hand.

"Come then, my beloved. Perhaps we shall take a closer look."

--

**If you have not already gathered, this story starts/breaks off during the scene with Esmeralda and Frollo in the prison. So, if you have not read the book, or just need a refresher, I recommend you refer to Book Eight, Chapter 4 (_LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA_--LEAVE ALL HOPE BEHIND, YE WHO ENTER HERE). It will give you a frame of reference and Frollo's confession pretty much summarizes most of what has happened to Esmeralda during the story thus far. As far as his confession goes--I didn't want to just cut and paste, so I did what I could. However, his more complete declaration, which you can read in that chapter of the book, is pretty much what I was going for. If you don't own the book, you can find an online version at online-literature . com**

**Thanks to those who reviewed! **


	4. Chapter 4

Claude tried to keep his temper in check. Esmeralda's vehement rejection hurt more than he wanted to admit. It had been slightly unexpected as well, if he were to be honest. Perhaps he was not as dashing and glamorous as her precious _captain_, but he was certain that his love would have overcome that. Didn't all women desire that sort of devotion? He could not fathom that any woman could reject someone who loved her as desperately as he loved Esmeralda.

Was she completely heartless?

No, he could not believe that. She had been so passionate when he saw her with her captain. She obviously believed herself in love with the shallow rake. He could not burn out of his brain the memory of her blushing under the other man's kisses. How could he? It was what drove him mad enough to attack the man… to bring about the situation in which they now found themselves.

What he did not understand is how she could bestow so much tenderness on a man who clearly desired nothing more than a soft body.

_Is that not what you want as well, Claude? _

NO! _No, no, no, no, NO! It is not true. Yes, I want her… but I love her. I am not some cad that would use her once and leave her alone and helpless. I would keep her always. _

Claude knew that there was more to Esmeralda than her beauty. There were plenty of pretty women in the world who did not attract so many admirers.

As sensual as she was, she was also very much an innocent. It was that passionate sort of innocence that men found so irresistible. Esmeralda fed more than a man's physical desires… she fed his need to feel like a man. Her unrestrained attentions made a man feel strong and desirable. Though arrogant and self absorbed in his own right, even Phoebus' eyes shined with pride as the gypsy girl kissed his sword and caressed his armor with adoring hands.

Suddenly Claude growled at the thought that the pompous captain receiving such affections freely when _he _would have died for even a tenth of that.

The sound must have startled the gypsy, because he heard her whimper and felt her resist against the pincer-like grip on her wrist. He gave her a little tug, urging her to keep up with him as they continued down the stairs.

"Let go of me… you monster… you… murderer!"

Claude stopped and turned so quickly that it caused Esmeralda to run into him. Before she could strike him, he snatched up her other wrist and began to press little kisses over her hand.

"Ah, ah, ah, my dear," he chided, tracing his tongue over the blue veins on the inside of her wrist. "That is not a very proper way to address me at all now, is it?"

Esmeralda snarled. "Then how shall I address you, _priest_?"

"When we are married, you will call me Claude. Until then…" his eyes turned cold and all traces of the last moment's affection were gone from his demeanor, "I am your master… and you shall address me as such."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and resumed their journey.

They burst through the front doors into the street. Esmeralda shut her eyes against the light and then promptly stumbled on a crack in the road. She let out a cry of surprised as she fell but, before she could fully make contact with the ground, she found herself staring up at the priest, who had caught her and was now looking over her in concern.

"Are you injured?" he asked kindly, setting her upright and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She shuddered and recoiled, reminding Claude of his purpose. He sighed and continued, though at a slower pace than before.

A crowd could be seen in the distance and, for a moment, Claude was certain the gypsy was going to call for help. He clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Do not bother screaming," he said conversationally, "No one will hear you. I dare say that being deprived of a lovely witch to hang nearly brought on a riot. Does that make you happy, dear girl? To know that your execution would have been such an event to remember? Then again… their disappointment did not last long. Some of your gypsy friends--opportunistic bunch, are the not?--took advantage of the lost bit of entertainment to provide some of their own. A little dancing--not as lovely as your's, no doubt, but you cannot have everything--and feats of acrobatics and, lo and behold, you have an all-out celebration!"

He felt the gypsy sob once against his hand and was filled with an odd mix of pleasure and guilt. He kissed her temple to distract them both as her eyes were fixed to the wild and loud festivities.

They had forgotten her.

--

When Esmeralda spotted the Place de la Grève, she immediately started to walk that direction, thinking that was where Claude had intended to take her. He held her back and took in her confused expression with amusement.

"Why, where are you going, my love?"

She glared. "To my death," she answered, "Is that not the option you have given me?"

To her horror, he began to laugh.

His insides had frozen when he realized that she truly had meant what she said: that she would rather _die _than be with him. He would worship her… she would be his queen… and, yet, she would choose death over him. He wanted to be sick. It took a great deal of effort on his part to ignore his instincts and appear collected. He could not afford to let her see his weakness now.

"Oh, sweet girl… you did not think it would be so easy, did you?"

He took in her wide-eyed appearance with a look of mock-sympathy… as if one were explaining a complex equation to a child.

Esmeralda's mouth worked a moment, opening and shutting, trying to find the right words to say and coming up with none. Her expression was enough, though, for Claude to give her an explanation.

"You are already dead, my dear. Would you have them execute a ghost?"

She followed him dumbly as he changed their course slightly and brought them to the cellar from which he had retrieved her just last night. He forced open the doors and pushed her in front of him. Terrified, the girl tried to back up, but Claude's body blocked the exit. Each step forward he made, forced her further into the room.

The smell was horrible, just as he knew it would be. They were surrounded by decaying bodies in all directions. Claude's body rebelled, but he kept himself calm. He'd had a lifetime of discipline, teaching him to ignore the distractions of the world. Thus, he appeared completely unmoved by the environment.

Esmeralda had no such control and she threw her hands up over her face, trying to cover the disgusting odor that assaulted her. Claude chuckled again and brought her hands down, pinning them to her sides with one arm as her back pressed even harder against his chest.

"None of that, now," he chided, "If this is where you want to live, you shall have to get used to the odor. It's a small price to pay, though, I should think. Isn't this where you wanted to be?"

Claude buried his own nose in her hair. The freshly washed tresses smelled so sweet and were soft against his face. She was pressed so very closely into him… the sting the pressure made on the badly-healed wounds on his chest were a reminder of the fact. The arm that bound her tightened ever so slightly as his free hand began to wander over her.

He felt bad for dragging her out into the street in nothing but a nightgown, but she did not give him much choice. He felt slightly better knowing that no one had seen them… and, besides, this was far more modest than the threadbare shift she had been wearing since the trial.

She was soft--he thought as his fingers grazed her hip--even through her clothing. He knew, though, just how much softer she was without it. He groaned, remembering what it had been like to bathe her a few hours ago.

He had undressed her lovingly, taking his time and making sure he did not aggravate any injuries he might have. He didn't notice any, though, as he examined her, and realized her weakness had merely been a result of neglect. Even her foot appeared to have healed nicely. He kissed the limb that had been injured by the torturer's hand.

Then, he had taken a soft cloth and began to wash the dirt from her body. Each stroke of the cloth took off another layer of grime, exposing more clean skin to his adoring gaze. It took a great deal of self control not to take more liberties with her in her unconsciousness.

Perhaps it had been wrong to see her so vulnerable. Maybe he should have waited for her to awaken and allow her to bathe herself. He would not regret it, though… nor would he apologize. A husband has every right to see his wife, for she belongs to him. In Claude's mind, this was no different.

Esmeralda began to shudder slightly, and Claude briefly wondered if it was his embrace or her fear that had caused such a reaction. He moved her hair to the side and began to kiss her neck and shoulder.

"You know," he said casually, nuzzling her neck, "being dead does not seem so entirely pleasant, I think." He spoke to her in sweet tones, as a lover would… which seemed to contrast unpleasantly with the morbid words.

"The body may appear peaceful, at first… do you see that fellow over there?" he pointed to the corpse of a man, placed in the cold cellar recently, and whose decomposition had only barely begun. Claude then turned her attention to another body. "But, after a short while, the skin shrivels and the eyes and nose melt away."

She tried to turn her head away, but he grabbed her roughly by the hair and forced her to face the decaying body.

"Why have you brought me here?" she breathed, not bothering to hide the tears that had begun to stream down her cheeks.

"This is where the dead come to rest. Do you understand, Esmeralda?" he murmured, "The only way to escape your execution was for you to die."

He felt her breath quicken. "Am I dead, then?" she asked.

Claude chuckled at the innocence of her question. She truly believed she might be dead and not know it.

"Of course not," he assured her. "The potion I fed you… it put you into a sleep so deep it mimicked death. Don't you see that I love you too much to allow more harm to come to you? No, my dear… I can attest to the fact that you are very much alive. But… to everyone else… to the courts… to the officials… to those fools dancing there in the streets… you died alone in that prison. So, you can see our dilemma, sweet. You no longer exist. I cannot simply turn you over to the police. Either you are alive, and you come with me. Or you are dead, and I leave you here. The choice is yours."

He turned her in his arms and tilted her chin up. Her eyes were pleading for some mercy… some third option… but she would find none.

"I choose you… m-master."

The archdeacon's eyes lit up in triumph and he kissed her hard on the lips.

"A wise decision, my love," he said, swinging her unresisting body up into his arms and carrying her out of the catacombs.


	5. Chapter 5

Esmeralda was not unconscious, as her new master carried her out of the tomb, just exhausted. She wept silently into his neck, equally comforted and disgusted by the soothing noises he was murmuring into her hair. She distrusted him, hated him. This was the man who had ruined her life, and yet, here she was clinging to him like a lifeline.

You see, there comes a time, in the height of human suffering, when an individual would take comfort from the Devil himself.

And so, she did.

--

Claude did his best to sooth the suffering creature in his arms. Her tears made him ache; he would have given a kingdom just to make them go away.

Why couldn't she just accept how much he loved her? Why couldn't she accept that he would do anything to make her happy? He _lived_ for her.

To be fair, it had taken him some time to accept it himself. He had tried everything… anything he could do to rid her from his mind. But it was not possible. When saw her in the torturer's chamber, strapped to that leather table and screaming in pain, he realized how lost he truly was. There was no going back now.

And, strangely enough, Claude found that he did not want to go back. He was grateful to have come to terms with his desires before her execution had been carried out. The thought of her, lost to him in death, was too much. He would have followed her there, too.

But it did not come to that. And it never would. Everything he did, from the moment he rescued her from the prison, had been for _her own _good. Why couldn't the girl understand that?

He regretted making her call him 'master'. Heaven knew what rubbish that was. He was the slave here. And, when it came to Esmeralda, he always would be. The day she accepted him, he would spend the rest of his life serving her.

For now, though, she needed to know who was in charge. His only consolation was that it would not always be this way.

When they reached the tall staircase to the tower, Claude set the girl on her feet. This time, instead of grabbing her wrist, he gently took her hand and led her up the stairs. Esmeralda did not seem to register the softness of his actions; she simply floated up the stairs, like a ghost, with a pale face and dead eyes.

It broke Claude's heart to see her thus, but he forced himself to take heart in the fact that she was not fighting him. He could deal with her apathy… it was her passionate loathing of him that kept him tearing at his hair and pounding bloodied fists against the wall.

He had expected her to be angry; he knew her tears would be a necessary evil which he would be willing to endure in the time it took to make her his. But he had not been expecting such unbridled _hatred_. Especially after he'd poured his heart out to her and confessed sins to her that he had not, until then, even acknowledged himself.

How could she hate him so fervently after that?

Honestly, he had never known Esmeralda had the power to hate. She was too pure, too kind, too…

He turned to her. "You are perfect, Esmeralda," he whispered. He reached out to caress her cheek. Maybe then she would understand the tenderness he desired to give her.

She recoiled.

With a hardened expression, Claude turned back away and continued their ascent. He cursed her for being disgusted with him. Then he cursed himself for being disgusting.

With a deep breath, he reminded himself to be patient. He knew little about women, but he was beginning to understand that Esmeralda's affections refused to be forced.

But how to do it?

It meant ignoring many of his urges which, to be honest, he wasn't particular inclined to ignore, especially now that she was finally under his power.

There is a hunter hidden inside every man, Claude philosophized. Years of study and the mortifications of the cloister had led the priest to believe he had banished the beast for good. But the first sight of this gypsy girl had brought it back with an unstoppable force.

The awakened hunter in him obsessed over the fantasy of the chase. He imagined how she would feel, fighting against him with all the wildness she possessed… and then slowly tire and weaken in his unyielding grip. He longed for that moment when she resigned herself to his strength and sank into his arms, pliant and vulnerable. He could do anything to her then and she would be utterly defenseless. But he would not hurt her… oh no, never that. He would continue to hold her and protect her from the world. But he wanted her vulnerable… beside him, beneath him, close to his heart. He ached for it.

But then there was the _man _in him--the part that wanted to be _needed _more than it wanted to dominate. He wanted to see her smile… a real, genuine smile made only for him. He wanted to open his arms and have her run to him eagerly. At night he wanted a willing body to cuddle up to him, practically begging to be held.

What a way to be torn!

But… he had plenty of time to sort out his feelings. Right now, this priorities were clear. She needed to be swayed from her resentment. He would have to forsake his ardor in exchange for tenderness. There would be no other way to keep her permanently. And that was what he wanted beyond all else.

_Ah, but knowing and doing are entirely different matters!_

Claude sighed. Best not dwell on the near impossibility of it all. He would try his hardest and take it from there.

--

In the way a man's body weakens after a great sprint, the frantic thoughts of this morning had caused Esmeralda's brain to feel beaten and drained. With no other motivation but the vague recollection that she could not afford to relax, she revived her brain of its stupor and forced it to work.

Still, she found herself looking at her situation with a rather detached mentality, as if she were watching someone else. The will to escape was still present, but the adrenaline to do so had long gone. Instead, she watched and wondered. Hopefully her calm demeanor would help her review all her options more objectively.

When he reached out to touch her face, she had flinched and drew back. It had been mere instinct to do so, but she regretted the action. Projecting her revulsion to him only served to make him angry. And, now that she knew what he was capable of, she did not dare provoke him. The man was mad… and, until this morning, she had never known the true extent of his madness. Knowing what he had already done, there was no way to guess what lengths he would be willing to go to for her… the last thing she wanted was to find out.

She wished she was dead. Esmeralda knew, without question, that death would be a simpler fate. And she truly believed that he had given her that option--to choose him or die.

Ah, but what a fool she was to think it could be that easy!

She never believed she could fear something more than she feared Claude Frollo. Even the imposing gibbet brought her no trepidation when faced with the alternative. But, after their short excursion into the tomb, Esmeralda realized that the lines were not so clear cut. That thought made her tremble.

The archdeacon must have felt her trembling from the hand he held, because he turned around yet again. The concern in his eyes frustrated Esmeralda and she turned away. However, when she closed her eyes to him, all she could see was the shriveling, decomposing faces of the men in the tomb. What a terrible position to be in… she could neither open her eyes nor close them without envisioning a nightmare of one sort or another.

"Are you cold?" he asked kindly. Esmeralda shook her head, afraid he might want to hold her again. Instead, he merely removed his cloak and placed it around her shoulders.

It was a test, and she knew it. Would she take his offering or would she throw it off?

In the end, she kept the cloak until they reached his room. This situation required prudence… and a simple cloak was not a battle she wished to fight.

And choosing her battles would be vital. She had no one else to count on but herself. To the world, she was dead. There would be no one to come rescue her. Even her beloved Phoebus was no more.

Thanks to _him._

No, if she were to escape, she would have to do it alone.

All alone. Such a sickening feeling.


	6. Chapter 6

Quasimodo had been perched on a ledge near the bell tower, waiting for the moment when Esmeralda would be led to her execution. He was not sure what to do, only that he could not let it happen.

Would he be able to distract the officials long enough for her to get away? No, eventually they would notice her absence and she would not be able to run fast enough to avoid recapture.

If only he could get her into the church. She could declare sanctuary and no one could touch her!

She was very beautiful and well loved by the people. Perhaps he would be able to convince them to trade his life for hers. He would do it without hesitation--such was the measure of his esteem for her--but would it be allowed? No, more likely they would simply take him as well. What a spectacle that would be! To hang a witch and torture a demon to death... all in the same afternoon!

The idea had merit, though. If she died, he would allow himself to be killed as well. It was only right... and it didn't seem too bad.

But, hopefully it would not come to that. He would come up with something, even if it meant climbing down from the rooftops and snatching her up himself.

--

Claude stared intently Esmeralda. Once they reached the cell, she ran to the farthest corner and curled in on herself, trying to make herself as small as possible as she sat against the wall.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Claude picked up the cloak, which she had flung onto the floor, and went back to watching her.

It was odd, really. He had gone through all this to have her, and here she was. Up until now, her presence had always been in the abstract sense. Now that she was here in the flesh... well... he wasn't sure what to do with her.

Of course, the obvious thoughts came to mind. He had, after all, been obsessing over them since the beginning. But he was fairly certain that acting on his desires now would not garner the results he was imagining.

If he had to be honest, there was a part of him that still wished to be rid of her. The little voice back there insisted that, once he took what he wanted, his mind would be free of her and everything would go back to the way it was.

From the beginning, she inspired feelings that he thought himself to be above. He could not understand it... and that, in itself, bothered him to no end. He understood everything! From the time he was a child, he had chosen books as his only companions... and he knew them as well as one would know a treasured friend. By the time he was sixteen, he could argue all subjects, canonical, mystical, and scholastic, with the best of them.

And, when he had mastered the arts of Godly men, he moved on to... darker things. Not for the love of the Adversary! No, never that. But... because there was no subject off-limits. He had to know it all. Knowledge was his sister.

And then _she _came along. She was the one puzzle he could not solve. The thoughts... the sensations she presented him with were illogical. Feelings like these control a man's thoughts and distract him from worthier things... which was why he had worked so hard to banish them as a boy. He hated to be controlled. It was bad enough that he was forced to be reliant on food and sleep to stay alive... he did not want _this _to muddle his thoughts as well. He refused to be ruled by his desires.

But he could not ignore these feelings. Unlike everything else in the world... he could not master this. And that concept… disturbed him. It made him question everything he ever knew.

Well not everything…

The one thing he _knew _without doubt… was that _she _was the catalyst. _She _started this all.

So, it stood to reason that she could be the key to ending it all.

_One more step and it will all be clear_, the voice in his mind urged. It sounded simple… just walk over and find out what it was that had consumed him so. He could take what he wanted… once his desire and curiosity were satisfied, he could put this all behind him. He knew from experience that the reality of something was never as good as the fantasy of it. This would be no different.

And yet… something told Claude that this would not be so simple. He was already in too deep. She had ruined him. He had done too much, given up too much, to go back to the way things were.

But the, Claude had ruined her as well. Because of him, she had no life to return to. For this he made no apologies. Fate had delivered them into hands of each other and, in this way, they were forever linked.

They belonged to each other.

And then, there was the small matter of the incongruity of fantasy and reality. Despite what he had told himself--that his obsession with her would fade as soon as he touched her and replaced his angelic dreams with the knowledge that she was nothing greater than a mere woman--his heart already held the suspicion that this will not be true.

To a lesser extent, he had already tried the remedy unsuccessfully. When he first found himself consumed by thoughts of her, he followed her to her home. It was the only reasonable action, really--she may have been an angel while the music played, but perhaps she would not remain so apart from her adoring spectators. She was a gypsy, was she not? Claude expected--and hoped--to find a whore… or a drunkard… or a witch who sacrificed small children while cackling and frolicking around with that gilded goat she was so fond of.

But he had been painfully mistaken. The child was even sweeter and purer in private than in the streets. Her dancing--though resplendent--carried a seductive quality, as if _experienced _in ways he refused to think about. But alone, the air of arrogance stripped away, leaving a girl, innocent and soft.

His endeavor to tear her down from her pedestal served only to heighten his fascination. In her virtue, he found her even more charming than before. He knew her to be a virgin, for he had spoken to her sham of a husband, and the confirmation of what he had witnessed made her even more alluring, if that was possible.

_Seeing_ her made his obsession worse; he found himself following her again and again, watching from behind shadows and under staircases. Logic dictated that _touching _her would reap the same results. If he had truly wanted to be rid of her, he should have left her alone and allowed her to be executed. But logic had flown out the window where Esmeralda was concerned… and so he stole her anyway.

Now logic told him that once would not be enough. And, for the first time, his heart agreed.

And now here they were. He had her… he could not let her go… and yet he hadn't the slightest idea of where to go from here.

So he just kept staring.

Eventually the gypsy grew uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze. "What are you going to do to me?"

"I do not know," he answered honestly.

"What is it that you want?"

Claude sighed. He was frightening her with his confusing answers. He wished he had more to give.

"I do not know that, either."

"Then let me go!" she cried softly, "I beg of you. If you do not know what you want from me… I beg you to release me!"

He shook his head. If only she understood. "I cannot," he replied.

It seemed they were at an impasse.

--

The day wore on and the hunchback had still seen no sign of the processional that would lead his adored gypsy to her death. In fact, by the look of the celebration taking place, it would seem as if the spectacle had been forgotten entirely.

Had he gotten the day wrong? No… it could not be. He had observed his master speaking of it earlier.

After another hour of waiting, the hunchback decided to risk leaving the cathedral in search of her. He thought, at first, to press his master for information… but he had learned that the gypsy girl was the one topic that could not be discussed with the priest. He was invested in a sinister sort of way, which Quasimodo did not understand. His emotions were volatile at best when he heard mention of her.

Instead he draped a cloak over himself and slipped out into the streets, doing his best to remain unnoticed.

It was there that he learned that Esmeralda was dead. The attitudes of the public varied, from how tragic it was for the poor wretch to die alone in that cave, to how outrageous it was of the government to refuse them the hanging of a witch. The result was the same, though.

She was dead.

Quasimodo was devastated. She had died? Alone? And he had not even known! All this time he had been wasting his time, planning the rescue of a girl who was beyond his reach.

Well… maybe not completely beyond…

He would seek her out. He need to… just be with her. For some reason the thought of being near her body brought him immense comfort. Yes, that was it… he would protect her body as he should have been able to protect her life. He would guard her with his last breath and then die with his arms around her.

It was the only way. He was in her debt.

Esmeralda, though he adored her, was not the only one to hold a place in Quasimodo's lonely heart. He loved another as well. His master, his mentor… Claude Frollo was much like a father to the deformed creature. He had taken him in as a baby, rescued him from a pitiful death--tat the expense of his own reputation--and raised him and given him a place of safety within the bell tower.

He adored his master, and Quasimodo could not bring himself to leave without saying goodbye.

--

Quasimodo knocked four times. He did not come to the archdeacon's chamber often, without being called, but he was always admitted, even when his master was very busy.

Saying goodbye seemed to be getting more difficult the more he dwelled on it. He wished to be controlled--the priest never took well to his emotion--but found himself becoming more tearful by the second. When the door finally cracked open and a very reluctant Frollo peeked out, Quasimodo could take no more. He flung the door completely open and threw his arms around the startled priest. The older man, struggled to push him off, unaccustomed to any human contact… much less something so overwhelmingly affectionate. He looked furious actually, and did not hesitate to throw the blubbering hunchback to the ground and kick him soundly in the ribs.

Quasimodo looked up from his position on the floor, casting near-worshipful eyes on his master, despite the aching in his side. The priest was looking nervously at the corner of the room. The hunchback turned his head, to see what had him so preoccupied.

And that is when he saw her.

Very much alive.

With _him._


	7. Chapter 7

The confused hunchback looked back and forth between the two people he adored the most. His master looked positively murderous, and he cringed when he realized the rage was directed at him. Still, he preferred to take it himself rather than have Frollo's fury inflicted on _her_.

And Esmeralda, his sweet gypsy, was curled in the corner, looking terrified. Why was she so afraid? Perhaps he had frightened her with his arrival. His appearance was enough to cause a woman to faint even if she _was _expecting him. No doubt surprising her with such had caused a near panic.

But… she was not looking at him. Those beautiful, black eyes had focused all their terror on his angry master. She had started to rock back and forth on her heels and her lips seemed to form the word 'please' in painful repetition.

What was wrong with her? Quasimodo wondered. He knew of his master's feelings for the girl. Frollo had loved her even longer than _he _had.He would not hurt her, would he?

The hunchback was yanked out of his thoughts with another swift quick to his side.

"Get out," his master said.

Quasimodo was a bit conflicted. His emotions were still reeling with the knowledge that she was alive when, not two minutes ago, he had thought her dead. But, his presence was infuriating his master… and it seemed to be frightening Esmeralda.

Suddenly the priests expression softened and Quasimodo felt gentle fingers run through his hair, tilting his head up.

"She is safe with me," he said quietly, knowing that the hunchback could not hear him anyway. He could read lips, though, and seemed to understand what his master was saying.

"Have I ever hurt you?" he asked. Quasimodo shook his head. No, his master had never been anything but kind to him.

"I am the one who saved the gypsy from death, did you know?"

His eyes widened. He hadn't known that.

"Who better, then, to protect her?"

Something about this made him uneasy, but the logic seemed to make enough sense. And it wasn't as if he would be leaving for good. As long as she lived within Notre Dame, he would be able to keep an eye on her. Perhaps, slowly, she would learn to accept his company.

He gave one last worried glance at the gypsy, who was trembling and mumbling words he could not decipher, and nodded his head.

"Good boy," the archdeacon murmured, patting his cheek affectionately. Quasimodo twisted his gnarled face into a half-smile. He truly did adore that man.

--

Esmeralda watched in horror as her last hope walked out the door, leaving her alone with the Devil, once again.

The tenderness he had used with Quasimodo had been an act, using the man's almost dog-like trust to get him to leave them in privacy. Now, as he turned back to his primary interest, his features were resolute once again.

Resolute, yes… but cruel, no. If she was honest, she'd admit to the helplessness she saw in his dark eyes. As it was, the thought made her sick, and so she dismissed it. Instead, she focused on the tick in his jaw.

"Come here, girl," he said imperiously, extending his hand to her. She shrunk back even further into the wall. She briefly wondered, if she sank further into the corner, if she could actually _become _part of the stone and woodwork of the wall.

"No," she whispered. She shook her head wildly, repeating, "No, no, no, no, no…"

"Stop!" he commanded. "You act like a lunatic! Come here, now, or I shall pick you up, myself!"

He knelt before her and reached out to touch her hair. Esmeralda winced. The man was a living contradiction, gliding from nearly violent dominance to timid submission without any transition or warning.

"Please, Esmeralda," he pleaded softly, "Do not be afraid. Just let me love you…"

"Phoebus…" she whispered, almost inaudibly, "where is my Phoebus?"

She hadn't intended to speak the words aloud--it had merely been the mantra flowing through her mind for the last hour--but the priest had heard and the damage had been done.

Before her mind could register just what she had done, she was on her feet, slammed against the wall by her captor, who was towering over her.

"He is dead!" Claude hissed, "I killed him myself."

Esmeralda blinked twice, trying to get her bearings. The only thing currently holding her up was the grip of his hands on her upper arms. His fingers were digging into her skin. It hurt.

"Stop," she pleaded, "You are hurting me."

The monk's eyes flashed and he did not release her. His eyes raked up and down her body, trying to figure out what he should do. The indecision in his expression comforted Esmeralda a little.

"Please, master," she whispered, silently willing him not to give in to the fleshly response he was so obviously battling.

--

At her soft words, Claude's vision seemed to clear. The rage that he had felt only moments ago dissipated, giving way to the agony hidden beneath it.

Why did she have to be this way? Why did she have to call out for… _him_… when the man who truly loved her was right in front of her? The captain could do nothing for her. And, had he been alive, Claude was fairly certain that he _would _do nothing for her anyway.

He stepped away from her, watching in sorrow as she rubbed her arms where his hands had just been. He was torn between wanting to flee and wanting to fall on his knees and beg her forgiveness. Neither option seemed promising…

"Do not speak his name again, Esmeralda," he said. It was not so much an order as it was a plea for her to _understand._ "Don't you see what it does to me? I would give you _everything… _if you would only love me. I offer you my heart, and you throw it to the ground and crush it beneath your feet every time you say _that name._"

--

Esmeralda stared at him for some time. She truly hated this man. With every fiber of her being, she wanted him dead. His obsession sickened and frightened her. And she had done nothing to deserve it! She had been happy and free until, in the course of hours, her entire life fell apart. How could she not hate him? He was the one responsible!

And, here he was, standing before her, looking fearful and vulnerable… and she believed what he was saying.

And the fact that he had destroyed her in the name of love, frightened her even more. If he had done these things out of hatred or vengeance, she would have understood. It would have confused her, just the same… but at least the motive would match the action.

But… to do these things because he _desired _her? There could be no reasoning with him. He was truly mad.

"Esmeralda… my love." His voice whispered her name with such reverence, as if he would be content just to say it again and again for eternity.

"I am very afraid of you," she admitted.

His face contorted in pain. "Why?" he cried, "Why must you fear me? What can I do to prove myself to you? I will give you anything you wish!"

"I wish to be free."

He looked at her coldly.

"So do I."


	8. Chapter 8

"Oh Darling! Are you sure you should be up and about so soon?"

Phoebus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His injury, while serious, had been healing quite nicely. To be honest, he could be drinking and gambling the night away by next week if he wanted.

On the other hand…

He had not only his wife-to-be, but also her many bridesmaids attending to him at all times. As much as he would like to get back to real life, the prospect of having dozens of beautiful women cooing and petting him was a little too enticing to give up on right away. And they didn't seem to mind his occasionally lewd comments and wandering hand. He was delirious and feverish, after all.

_Being a hero doesn't hurt either,_ he thought with a smirk. He had been carried to a doctor, bloodied and unconscious, after finding himself in a terrible fight with at least four bandits, while trying to protect a group of orphans and their old widow caretaker.

After all, he couldn't very well tell his betrothed he was stabbed while trying to seduce the gypsy girl that Fleur-de-Lys was so terribly jealous of. It would eventually get back to the girl's mother and the old hag would have his head. No, that would not do at all. Best keep his disreputable predilections to himself until _after _the wedding.

Unless… he could corner one--or two--of those bridesmaids without anyone knowing.

Now _that _could be a fun way to pass the time.

--

Claude Frollo paced up and down the stairs. It was an odd habit that he'd picked up as a younger man whenever he needed to think. Both his personal cell and his work room lacked the space to pace properly, and the stairs provided just enough exercise to tire his body while giving his mind the clarity he needed to work out some complex problem.

And Esmeralda was a complex problem.

He hated to part from her, but it was a necessity. He had to get out of there. His mind and his body were urging him to do many conflicting things to her--and he was likely to regret any one of them. No… best leave before he ruined his chances with her entirely.

He was trying, he truly was. He was a man, he could over power her easily… and yet, he had not. Instead, he restrained himself and tried to keep from frightening her.

She had nothing, save for him. Even if he did give her freedom, she could never return to the life she once knew. Could she truly be so deluded as to believe otherwise? If he were to cast her out, she would surely die. And it would not be an easy death! The world held little mercy for witches.

But he did not cast her out. He had taken her into his protection. Now that she lived under his hand, nothing could harm her. The power he had frightened even the higher-ranking officials. All it would take would be a few words from himself, and the most influential of citizen could be ruined. At best, his reputation would be destroyed; at worst, he could find himself tried for blasphemy. And all because the archdeacon, Claude Frollo, had decided to denounce him.

And he was not afraid to use every last ounce of his power. He would whisper in every ear, pull any strings, retrieve any debts. He would keep her safe at all costs. Even if she was a witch.

Yes… about that…

Claude was beginning to have his doubts. The seductive temptress he had witnessed from his window many months ago had been replaced by what seemed to be… a frightened little girl.

Frankly, he did not know how he felt about that.

At one time, he had been convinced that she was an angel of darkness, sent to lure him into the gates of Hell, and her teasing and rejection was nothing more than a ploy to aid in his downfall. And, to be honest, there was an odd sense of safety in that certainty. He had unknowingly flitted into the spider's web and was about to be devoured whole. She had driven him to madness, thereby allowing him to hate her just as fervently as he loved her.

But, at some point, the dichotomy had broken. And now he felt more imbalanced than ever.

She was, it would seem… just a girl.

--

Esmeralda sat, huddled in her corner, long after her tormentor had left.

He had left in such a hurry, with such a look of disgust on his face… she was terrified, though she had no idea what to do. She needed a hero. She needed someone to come rescue her from this madness. Where was her handsome captain?

"One… two… three…" she whispered. It would only be a matter of seconds before he stormed through that door.

_Four… five…_

He would be bloodied, no doubt, but she would be brave and not faint, knowing that it was not his own blood--and, rather, the blood of the priest who had tried so valiantly to part them.

_Six… seven… eight…_

Any second now… Phoebus would twirl her about in his arms, giving her tender little kisses and whispering words of love. Esmeralda just _knew _it would be this way between them. Their love was so pure and sweet.

_Nine… ten…_

He would whisk her away on that horse with the gilded armor. He would take her to safety… to a little house in the country where the sun is brightest and the sky is bluest. Then they would marry and no one would ever dare separate them again.

_Eleven… twelve…_

The gypsy girl smiled as she counted, knowing that her rescue was only moments away.

_Thirteen…_

The door slammed open.

"Phoebus!" Esmeralda cried, springing up from her place and launching herself towards the door, so certain of the newcomer's identity that she did not bother looking up.

She heard a noise, a strange rumble between a growl and death rattle, and felt herself being gripped by the shoulders and held at arm's length.

"Guess again," a familiar voice said. Esmeralda sagged slightly and looked up with defeated eyes. Instead of her strong captain, she found herself back in the arms of her ugly nightmare once again.

The priest seemed indecisive for a moment, but then pulled her the rest of the way into his arms and buried his nose in her hair.

Esmeralda wanted to be sick. This man was cruel… he was ugly… his proximity repulsed her. When his skin touched hers, she briefly wondered if she had made the right choice, or if she should have taken her chances with the decaying bodies.

This was the better option, she reminded herself. Phoebus would not know where to find her, locked away in the tomb. At least, here, he would be able to locate her by seeking out the priest.

But still…

Her captor ignored her squirms and shudders as he lazily stroked her back with one hand. He was silent, as if content to hold her this way forever, and she whimpered in dismay.

"Are you a witch?" he murmured, so softly that she wondered if the question was even meant for her.

She tensed but did not respond. What kind of question was this? She worried he was trying to trick her with the answer.

"Answer me, girl!" he said, a little more harshly. He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. "Are you a witch?" he repeated.

"N-no," she answered. He studied her intently. What was he looking for?

"A demon, then." It was a statement… yet, he seemed to be looking to her for confirmation.

Tears started to form in her eyes. "No," she answered, shaking her head.

His grip on her chin tightened. She winced. The archdeacon was looking at her with such anguish in his dark eyes. He had to be at least a hundred years old. Every bit of him resembled the goblin monk he was rumored to be.

"An angel, then? A nymph? A siren?" he asked, desperately.

"No… master… none of those things."

His touch gentled, as it did every time she spoke the title he had commanded her to use for him. He removed his hand from her chin and continued stroking her back.

"Tell me, girl. What are you?"

"I… nothing. I am nothing. Just a girl… a gypsy… I… ah… what answer are you looking for? Please, sir… you are confusing me."

"You are not what I thought you to be," he said, absently. Esmeralda's breath hitched as she allowed herself a glimmer of hope. This was it. He finally understood. Now that his delusions were set to rights, he would surely let her go.

Still, she dared not anger him by asking.

"I… I thought that this would be simple. You had cast some dark spell on me. I would possess you and then I would die, you see… for such is the consequence for selling one's soul. I had accepted my fate, just as I had accepted yours. But then…" he tightened his hold on her, "Oh, Esmeralda… I never imagined… never dared to hope…"

Esmeralda stiffened, waiting for him to finish a sentence that could yield so many different outcomes.

He pulled back from her and she looked up to see the most terrifying grin she had ever witnessed on a person.

"Oh don't you see, dear girl?" he exclaimed, becoming more excited by the second. "Things will be so much different for us now that you are merely human, as I am! It is not so very wrong… no… not at all. We can be together, yet… free of the guilt and the torment… free of the perpetual reminder of inevitable damnation. We will be husband and wife, you see… not bound by Hell but bound by God. And--oh, what joy!--you can know, with certainty, that my love for you was not forced by some hated magic… that, I love you with all of my heart, of my own accord. At least, I believe it to be so. And I will know that you love me for myself, without coercion. Oh… I know you do not love me now, Esmeralda. But you will… I am sure of it. After we are married, you see…"

Claude's nonsensical tirade was cut short as he felt Esmeralda grow heavy in his arms.

She had fainted.

Claude merely smiled. "Oh, my sweet wife… why did you not tell me you were so tired? Of course, it has been a taxing day. You must rest!"

He swept her into his arms, covering her face in tender kisses and whispering words of love.

Then he laid her down in his bed and kissed her forehead one more time.

"Yes, you sleep now. Good girl. I have much work to do. So many arrangements to be made! But do not trouble yourself with anything, Esmeralda. I will take care of everything. And then we will marry and no one shall ever separate us again."


	9. Chapter 9

Esmeralda awoke, thankfully, alone. She rolled over on the hard mattress, wondering if she should attempt to go back to sleep or if she should be working on a way to get out of this mess. Suddenly an odd thought occurred to her, causing her to tumble ungracefully, and rather painfully, onto the stone floor.

She shuddered. This was _his _bed she had been lying in. _He _had once slept under that blanket… _he _had rested his head on that pillow. She cringed as she realized… her skin smelled faintly of him, though she did not know if it was that fact alone that upset her or the knowledge of how pleased this would make him.

Either way, it was enough to make her gag. With a sudden sense of urgency, she started tearing through the priest's things, trying to locate the scented oil he had bathed her with earlier. Surely, there had to be some left over. If only she could find it…

The gypsy gave a cry of excitement when she opened a box and found it filled with vials of all shapes and sizes. Her triumph, however, was short lived when she realized that she had no idea what the right bottle would look like. She glared at the foreign symbols on each label as, for the first time in her life, she regretted her inability to read.

It was an odd realization, on her part. Never once had she desired to be literate. Why would she? Deciphering silly markings never put food on the table. She only knew one person who could read - her dear _husband_. And see how much good that did him?

Esmeralda's heart lurched when she thought of Pierre Gringoire. She never really liked the little man--he talked too much--but his presence had become something of a comfort to her. They had formed an amiable companionship in the weeks after she saved his life by marrying him, but she was hardly attached. Still… what she wouldn't give to hear his idiotic ramblings right now!

Well, he would make sure her goat was cared for - so at least he was good for something. His infatuation with the little animal was unparalleled.

Speaking of which… where was Djali? Was she set free? Did Gringoire rescue her? Or was she killed? It was hard for her to recall the hours before her imprisonment, but she vaguely remembered that the goat was just as much on trial as she was.

Ah, but no time to dwell on such things now. She could worry about Djali later. Her first concern was smelling like a woman again. She did not want to encourage her priest any further. She refused to acknowledge any claim he had on her, even one as unconscious as this.

Her daydreaming, while a pleasant distraction, had not brought her any closer to finding the right vial and, with a growl of frustration, she began pulling out bottles at random and sniffing them.

"You should not do that," she heard a voice say.

"Who is that? Show yourself!"

"It is I, the unworthy monster who is so devoted to you."

Esmeralda nodded, frowning. She had never actually heard the muffled voice of the hunchback, but she was fairly certain it was him.

"Are you going to come out?"

"No. I know you do not wish to see me. I would only frighten you. But… but I can see you! And I can read your lips… so we may speak if you wish."

Esmeralda was a little grateful at the monster's declaration. While it was somewhat unnerving to speak into the rafters at a creature she could not see… he was probably right about his appearance frightening her. She had only seen him twice--once on the pillory and once, pleading with Frollo, in this room--and both times had been brief and necessary. First, she had brought him water, taking pity on him as one would an animal who was suffering. The second time, she had looked at him, not as a beast, but as a potential savior; in the desperation of her plight, she could overlook the sheer hideousness of the hunchback.

But now, without the mercy and urgency as a veil, she would surely be repulsed.

And so, he remained hidden. She did not protest.

"The bottles, Esmeralda," Quasimodo said, returning to the conversation at hand. "You should not touch them. They are not all good for you. Master told me not to touch them."

"Why… what does he have in them?"

"Different things. Master experiments frequently. I believe some are poisonous. You'd… you'd better put them down. Please, Esmeralda? You will get in trouble! Master would be very angry with you. I would hate for him to be angry with you."

Esmeralda found herself smiling sadly. The hunchback's statement was not a threat--he was actually concerned for her well being. The priest must truly be as evil as she thought.

_Hmm_. But how would he punish her for this? It was merely innocent curiosity… and, it was not as if he ever told _her _to stay away from his belongings.

She returned to the box, continuing her search for the sweet smelling perfume.

--

Claude Frollo was a passionate man, though one would never know by speaking to him. He was prone to obsession, his heart leapt at his triumphs, and he despaired over his failures. The few times he allowed himself to love, he did so with his whole being.

And, though he knew that his heart was capable of intense emotion, he could count the number of times he had experienced a state of pure, unadulterated happiness.

He remembered when, as a youth, he first discovered that he could hold his own in debate with the great masters of doctrine. The heady sense power he felt, then… knowing that his sacrifice --childhood, friends, nature--had been rewarded tenfold. And, though he would feel shame to admit it, there was still that small part of him that reveled in the jealousy of the boys who had always taunted him.

Though the boy's very existence was somewhat unfortunate, Claude had shared one or two nice moments with Quasimodo. It was not a sense of pride or satisfaction in its own right that made the priest smile; rather, he seemed to draw on the hunchback's own pleasure. For example, bestowing on Quasimodo, the responsibility of the cathedral's bells. The act should have meant nothing to him… but he found himself smiling at the bell ringer's apparent joy.

And then there was Jehan. Certainly, the adoption of his younger brother was not so pleasant--as it accompanied the painful death of their parents--but the boy had brought him many moments of happiness since then. His first steps, for instance. When, under Claude's tutelage, he had read his first book. Doubtless, the young man had brought him more pleasure than any other. Jehan was his greatest pride. When his love of knowledge was not enough, Claude looked to his brother to fill the void. In return, Claude showed his affection in the only way he knew how; he dedicated himself fully to the boy's education and gave him, freely, the opportunities and knowledge that he had had to work so hard for.

Oh yes. Books may have been his true love… but Jehan was his world.

Until now. On both counts.

Esmeralda had encompassed and surpassed all of these things, now. He had his heart _and _his devotion. Esmeralda was everything.

Ah! But now, there was hope. He could feel another of those unforgettably happy moments creeping up over the horizon, just out of reach. But not for long. He was almost there; he could feel it. A few more days and he would marry his gypsy and own her forever. And that would only be the first of many happy memories to come.

The act of marriage would be difficult to accomplish, but not impossible. Technically, one who had taken Holy Orders could not also take a wife. Technically. In reality, many members of the clergy did marry--a fact of which he was painfully aware, as he had been so very outspoken about it in the past.

And, in that, lied the problem.

Claude had been outraged at the blatant disregard of what he believed to be one of the highest mandates of Scripture. As such, he had not hesitated to speak out against those perpetrators who brought shame upon their station. The archdeacon's position was clear: women were nothing more than distractions. They caused the heart of a godly man to stray from his true purpose. Claude would have banished them from the church _building_--and had advocated such--and yet, there were others who would go so far as to claim one for a wife. And the fact that nobody else seemed perturbed about it just inflamed him more.

How quickly one's perspective can change!

And so, this left Claude with the unusual predicament of trying to commit the act that had so appalled him barely a year ago.

He was not a stranger to hypocrisy… though he might argue against the accusation. He would outwardly accuse men of dark acts while secretly practicing alchemy in his own cell.

The difference, however, was that his previous acts, of a rather grey nature, had been committed in secret, where a marriage would be very much a public affair. He might be able to hide it for a time… but eventually the truth would come out, and the ensuing scandal would have the potential to bring excommunication or death upon him and his wife.

_His wife._

The complication of the matter would be worth it. "Difficult, not impossible," Claude muttered, gaining an odd look from an ancient woman, on her way from the baker's.

He glared at the passerby and she scuttled away. This strange man reminded her to go home and say her prayers, lest the goblin monk come knocking.

Claude was rather oblivious of the sinister air he was exuding. There was no time to consider such things. Right now, he had details to work out.

They would need to move _before _the marriage. Maybe he could get transferred to a smaller parish, somewhere in the mountains, near the house he had secured for the two of them. He would need to give them a good reason… perhaps something about research… or, perhaps he just felt the need to service the poor people who lived near the forest edge.

And what of the ceremony? Perhaps he could disguise his profession and get another priest to marry them. Did they even need a ceremony? Sure… _technically_ a priest needed to oversee their vows. But… _technically _he couldn't be making those vows.

Now that was interesting.

_Hmm. Details, details._

Ah well. It would all be worth it in the end. And maybe, when Esmeralda knew how much he had done for her, she would think so too.

--

Quasimodo watched nervously as Esmeralda dug through his master's belongings. He wrung his hands; she would get in trouble, he just knew it.

Perhaps he could take the blame somehow… that his master's infatuation with the girl would blind him just enough so that he could be convinced of whatever confused truths Quasimodo could spin. He was not a very good liar.

All of a sudden, he was drawn out of his thoughts by a gasp. Esmeralda was fixated on the small window, with a look of both excitement and panic on her face.

Curiously, the hunchback strained to see what she was so mesmerized by.

A glimmer of gold flashed in the last remnants of sunlight. The captain--it could be no other.

Down below, surrounded by several fashionable young ladies (and one matronly escort) on colorfully decorated palfreys, rode Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers, clad in gilded armor and riding his gallant, white charger.

"It's him!" Esmeralda cried. "Phoebus! Phoebus! Look up here! It is I… your Esmeralda. My love, my love!"

Dismayed, she turned toward Quasimodo, who had just stepped into view.

"He cannot hear me," she wailed. Her eyes were wild, like an animal. "What shall I do?"

Quasimodo shrugged his gnarled shoulders, inwardly cringing at what he knew she was about to ask of him.

"Please… you must help me. Go down below and tell him his beloved Esmeralda is trapped in Notre Dame. Tell him he must come and rescue me. Oh… I thought he was dead! But, now we can be together. He only needs to come rescue me. Please go… hurry!"

He bowed his head, not wanting her to see the tears beginning to well up in his one good eye. With a quick nodded and inaudibly whispered endearments, he flew down the stairs, swinging on ledges and taking shortcuts that only he could know about.

Esmeralda's attention remained riveted to the window, her task forgotten and a corked, green bottle hanging loosely in her hand. She was trembling with excitement. This was it. She knew he was alive… just _knew _it. And it was true! And soon that bellringer would lead him up here to her and she would finally feel happiness again.

It seemed like she stood there forever. Time seemed to stop. She continued watching the window long after the captain disappeared from sight, the hunchback not far behind and quickly catching up.

She waited, and waited. _It has to be soon_, she told herself. _Just a few more minutes._

But a few more minutes passed… and a few more… and Phoebus still hadn't come crashing through that door.

A few minutes later, and she heard an erratic thumping that could only be the footsteps of her bow-legged friend. Of course, he would have needed to lead the captain up to the tower… but her fantasies of her golden hero smashing through the door, sword in hand, didn't really consider the fact that he would have no idea where she was.

Oh well, even if their reunion was a little less quixotic than she'd anticipated… surely the ugly hunchback would have enough since to disappear once he delivered the captain to her doorstep. She certainly didn't want any strange onlookers invading their privacy when he kissed her.

She practically tore open the door the second she heard the knock. Quasimodo had returned… alone.

She looked past him, into the hall. Nobody.

"You are alone?" she asked, "Where is Phoebus?"

"I… I could not catch him," the hunchback answered.

Esmeralda paled at first, then flushed when she realized what he was saying. "You _what_? Why couldn't you? What is the matter with you?"

Quasimodo stood there, with profound sadness in his eyes, as Esmeralda shouted insults at him that he could not hear. Occasionally, she would accentuate something with a blow to his chest or face. Quasimodo did nothing, and allowed her attacks.

Better to accept her hatred than to tell her the truth.

"Get out! GET OUT!" she screamed, pushing him as hard as she could out the door. It was like pushing on a wall, she realized, but he allowed himself to be shoved out of the door and did not stop her from slamming the door in his face.

Immediately, Esmeralda burst into tears. She turned back to the window and pressed her forehead to the wall. The green bottle was now clutched tightly to her chest, as if it could give her comfort for the simple reason that it had been in her hand at the time.

The bell ringer had failed. _That stupid… hideous… worthless…_

He had failed. Phoebus was still lost to her.

Just as she had begun to contemplate this, the door flew open. In surprise, she dropped the bottle, which broke into pieces on the floor. The contents hissed in reaction to the stone and small amounts of oddly colored vapor began to evaporate into the air.

Claude Frollo had surged into the room with a wide grin on his face. The more he thought of their upcoming future together, the more excited he became. It had always been this way, but finishing the arrangements had made it so much more real. And knowing that she would be waiting for him in his room, meant he had someone to share in his excitement.

His grin quickly faded, however, as he looked down from Esmeralda's tear-stained face, to the spilled bottle on the floor.

Before she could utter a question, Esmeralda found herself forced up against the wall. The priest was feeling her neck and throat with one hand, while the other held open one eyelid, then the other. The concern on his face made Esmeralda rather uncomfortable, for some reason.

The hand on her neck lowered to her stomach and the archdeacon knelt before her. The look of concern fused with one of anger, leaving him with a rather contorted scowl on his face.

"How much did you drink?" he hissed.


	10. Chapter 10

_How much did you drink?_

The words bounced around in her head while Esmeralda considered her answer.

_None_, of course. That was the obvious answer, as well as the truth. But some little part of the gypsy's brain that made her pause in her answer.

"Why do you care?" she asked, instead.

The archdeacon growled and his fingers tightened into her hips, where he was holding her. He kept his cheek pressed to her belly for another second before rising up to his full height and glaring down at her.

"Why do you think I care, you insufferable woman? What were you thinking, digging through those boxes? Did it not occur to you that there could be poisons in there? You could _die_!"

"So what?" she demanded, taking on a expression that, unbeknownst to her, looked more childish than haughty. "Maybe I want to die. Have you thought of that? I am miserable… I have nothing left to live for. If I wish to destroy myself, who are you to stop me?"

"I am your master! Your guardian! I am the only one left who cares for you!"

"My Phoebus loves me more than you ever could."

"_Your Phoebus_," he sneered, "is dead."

"Ah-ha!" she cried, triumphantly. "You lie, priest! He lives! I saw him today, from the window. He is looking for me, and will soon rescue me from this place. Release me now, and I will plead on your behalf. I will ask him to kill you quickly."

Shock flashed over his face. In less than a second, it disappeared.

_No_, Claude assured himself. He could not possibly have lived through… No… there was too much blood… the knife had penetrated too deeply. One simply does not survive those injuries. Still, her insistence and confidence had the priest bothered.

"Do not be foolish, girl. He is dead. I killed him myself." Inwardly he cringed at having to remind her that he was the one to kill her lover… but she had to recognize the truth and stop living this fantasy of distressed damsel, about to be rescued by her charming hero.

"Now you are the one being foolish," she insisted. "He is alive. I saw him with my own eyes. Your hunchback witnessed him, too. Ask him, if you do not believe me."

Claude pinched the bridge of his nose. It was becoming clearer by the second that she had not ingested anything from the smashed bottle. If she had, she would probably be beyond help by now. But that didn't change the fact that she could very well have died! This nonsense about the captain was, no doubt, an attempt to distract him. Did the silly child have no idea how serious her actions were?

"Esmeralda. Dear Esmeralda… you must not touch your master's things. Some of the elixirs in those bottles are very poisonous."

She scoffed and he lost what little calm he had possessed. "One bottle to the left, Esmeralda!" he yelled, shaking her. "One bottle to the left and you would have been very painfully killed."

"Unlikely," she said, unconcerned. Then she matter-of-factly confirmed, "I didn't drink any."

Claude started to laugh--not a pleasant sound--and his eyes turned fiery. "Do you think that matters?" He pointed down to the floor, where remnants of liquid still trickled away from the smashed bottle. Then he lifted the bottle to the left of the now empty slot in the box.

Forcing her to look at the odd symbols on the jar, he asked, "Do you know what this says? Of course you don't! Then perhaps I shall read it to you. It says: Lethal when inhaled. Do you know what that means, Esmeralda? It means, if you had dropped this bottle instead… you would not be alive to torment me right now. And it would not be a pleasant death either, let me assure you. Shall I detail to you what happens to a body that breathes this in?"

"NO!" she cried, horrified, "Please, please don't! I beg of you."

He growled and threw her onto the bed. "Perhaps I should take pity on you, then," he decided. His voice, though obviously angry, leveled out as he regained control of himself. Esmeralda huddled on the bed wretchedly, watching his ever-changing emotions and praying to whomever or whatever was listening that he would stay sane just a little while longer.

After a moment of agitated pacing, Frollo sat down on the bed, beside her. Very gently, he rested one hand on her knee while the other wiped the tears off her cheeks, all the while ignoring the way she flinched and shifted at his touch.

"Esmeralda…" he breathed reverently, "I keep balms and medicines, here in this office, that will heal you if you become unwell. However, there are also things that could make you very sick… or even kill you. The point is, you do not know which is which… and you must never touch my things when you do not know what they are. You must forgive my anger, my gypsy… but I cannot bear to lose you. Do you understand?"

Esmeralda did not answer, instead she curled in on herself and began weeping in earnest.

"There, there…" the priest soothed, wrapping his arms around her unwilling form and rocking her softly. "No harm done, sweet. I could never stay angry with you…"

Esmeralda half-listened to his murmured platitudes. Did he think she was upset because he was angry with her? Really? He stroked her curls and planted butterfly kisses along her hairline. She squirmed in revulsion, but it was clear he wasn't letting her go any time soon. After a moment, she gave a resigned sigh and relaxed against him, inwardly cringing when she felt him smile.

"In fact," he continued, "I have a surprise for you."

_A surprise? _She suddenly felt sick.

"All the arrangements are complete."

"A-arrangements?"

"Of course, dear. For our marriage. I had thought to wait until next week but, given these recent events, I think it would be best if we left tonight."

"Tonight?" she panicked, "Where?" _If I leave here… how will Phoebus ever find me? No… no…_

"Haven't you been listening? Yes, we're leaving tonight… to the special home I have for us. Remember? Oh Esmeralda, my love, it will be perfect! A little house by the water, just like I promised you."

"But… but it is too late to leave tonight!" Esmeralda stated, grasping at whatever logic she could think of that would buy her a little extra time. "It will be too dark. We will get lost. Can we not wait until tomorrow?" _Or not go at all?_

"Nonsense, child," he happily declared, "it is summer now and there are still a few hours of daylight left. But hurry… we must not waste any more time."

As the gypsy paced and eyed him fretfully, the archdeacon gathered up a few books and personal belongings for the journey. Most of their necessities would already be waiting for them at the cottage, assuming everything had gone as planned and the couple he hired to maintain the place were not complete idiots.

Esmeralda, however, had nothing to pack with her. She didn't even have a suitable dress! Claude would rectify this as soon as possible. After all, what kind of husband would he be if he did not provide for his wife? He told her as much, of course, to allay her fears… but she merely shrugged and went back to her scowling.

Secretly, Claude was somewhat pleased that she had nothing that belonged to her. It gave him a chance to show her that he would take care of her. Her dependence made him giddy. A small part of him fantasized about binding her to a chair, blindfolded. Then he could truly be her provider in all things… sunlight and freedom being allotted to her in accordance with his own judgment.

But reason and adoration won out against his darker whims; he could never confine his little sparrow like that.

Instead he contented himself that she would be his to dress up and care for. He would be her world now, just as she became his long ago. Her clothing, entertainment… hell, her very _existence_… would come from him alone.

And then she would have to love him, right? She would learn to trust him and depend on him. Her love would surely follow.

Claude paused and smiled strangely, causing the gypsy girl to reel back in surprise.

_She is truly mine, now, _he thought with a chuckle. _Her life, quite literally, depends on it!_

--

Quasimodo swung his feet from the summit of the Northern tower. To anyone else, his odd position seemed precarious at best and more than a little dangerous. But the bell ringer was used to these rafters and gargoyles and would perch himself upon them with the same ease that one might lounge in a chair.

He was at home up here, in his tower, with his bells whom he loved and considered his best of friends.

"Oh Marie," he sighed to the Great Bell, beside him, "I hope I did not make you terribly angry. Here you are… my steady, dependable friend… and I go and give my heart to another. Can you ever forgive me?"

His head snapped to another bell on his left. "Don't you think I know that, Gabrielle? Of course she would never love someone like me! I just never imagined it would hurt like this. How could it not. You saw, Jacqueline, did you not? How high up you are! You must have seen me running after the captain like that… down below."

"Do you think so? Do you think I should tell Esmeralda the truth? But… I could not. I could never. I could not bear to bring her such pain. It is better that she hates me than suffers the knowledge that that stupid man wants nothing to do with her. Tell them, Jacqueline… tell your sisters how he kicked me… how he shouted at me."

"No, I do not know what he said… how could I? Be reasonable, Thibauld. But… I am not so blind that I could not see his intent. He does not love her. Not as she deserves. But… I could never tell her that. I shall take her pain upon myself instead."

"What's this, Marie? You still think I should try to make her see reason? Are you… truly… all in agreement about this?"

"Well, then… I shall give it some more thought. But, not now… it is getting dark… I will be able to check on her again without risk of being seen."

As Quasimodo prepared to launch himself off his ledge toward a lower protrusion, he paused. Giving one last, affectionate look at the Great Bell and said, "Do not be jealous, Marie. You shall always be my first love. I promise you… a piece of my heart shall always belong to you."

With a great burst of energy, he swung down the building, catching himself on rafters and ledges with an agility that no other could ever hope to match.

His gypsy awaited. He would give her distance for awhile, let her anger cool some, before approaching her. But he would still watch her from afar. Her silent protect her, as he was meant to be.

It did not take long to reach the room where she was being kept… and that was when his hopeful thoughts were dashed.

She was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

Claude admitted to himself that he was more than a little nervous at the prospect of riding a horse. His experience as a rider was limited at best--it is not like his occupation called for gallivanting around on horseback like a pompous nobleman. And there was the added embarrassment that the _captain _would certainly put his riding skills to shame, and he hated to feel such inferiority in front of Esmeralda.

But, alas, there was nothing for it. He did not trust his little bride not to try and run off. And so, at least until they left the city, he would just have to endure the wretched beast and try to maintain his balance while keeping Esmeralda trapped in his arms. It was going to be interesting, to say the least.

Maybe, when they were further out of town, he'd be able to convince her to stay put and let him walk. He supposed it all depended on how willing she was to behave herself. At the moment, it did not look very promising.

"Hurry along, girl," he scolded. Esmeralda looked every bit like the sulking child as she maneuvered herself down the stairs with almost painful sluggishness.

When his frustration reached its breaking point, he simply grabbed hold of her arm and yanked her close to him.

Annoyed, he withdrew a small vial of powder from his pocket. "Do you see this, Esmeralda? This is a sleeping formula. If you wish I can put it in a drink for you and put you to sleep for this part of our journey. You can make the choice: either you do as I say and act like an adult, or you take some of this and trust me to take care of you in your unconsciousness. What do you say? And, before you ask… no I will not let you go, and no I will not delay our trip until morning. We have been over all that before. These are your own two options. Which do you choose?"

Really, Claude couldn't care less about her decision at the moment. They both had their obvious benefits and inconveniences.

For Esmeralda, however, the choice was clear. Not only did she shudder to think of the priest seeing her in such vulnerability again, but she also did not want to lose the chance of calling for help if Phoebus (or anyone else, at this point) were to cross her path.

"I'll be good, master," she whispered obediently.

Skeptical, but satisfied, the archdeacon--soon to be _former _archdeacon--gave a curt nod of his head.

"Up you go, then," he said, offering his hand to help her onto the horse. Esmeralda glared at him before jumping up herself.

Or, at least, that was the intention. She soon found that, agile as she was, the horse was much to tall for her to spring up unassisted. Despite her embarrassment, Esmeralda stubbornly tried again, determined not to let the priest have the satisfaction of lending her assistance.

After the third failed attempt to mount the steed, Claude gripped her waist and hoisted her up anyway.

"Esmeralda," he sighed wearily, "do stop acting like a child."

The gypsy huffed and Claude swung himself up, onto the horse, behind her.

This was going to be a long ride.

--

And it was a long ride. Claude couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed about it. In his mind, he had been taking his bride on a pleasant trip to their new home. The reality of tugging along a sulking Esmeralda left him understandably frustrated.

"How far are we going?" she whined.

"Very far."

"When will we get there?"

"It is going to be a while."

"But I am tired _now._ Can we stop and rest yet?"

"Soon."

"Not soon… _now! _You said you would do anything for me… but you will not even give me a moment to rest. I think you are deliberately trying to make me miserable."

Claude nearly growled and his hold on her waist tightened painfully. Why was she determined to be difficult?

"Peace, Esmeralda. I believe there is a place, just over that hill, where we can rest for the night."

At least it wasn't all bad, Claude decided. Esmeralda's body felt wonderful against his own--and she knew it, at least in the back of her mind. Of course, had sat stiffly for the first ten minutes or so, and since had started to unconsciously sink into him more and more until she was finally relaxed and comfortable in his arms.

Claude grinned inwardly. She would probably be horrified if she realized what she was doing. But, she did not have to know and he could pretend her acceptance was entirely intentional. He decided to ignore her petulant words and focus on the feel of her breath against his neck.

--

They stopped sooner than Claude would have liked. He was hoping to go a few more miles before it became too dark. But--though he would never mention it out loud--Esmeralda had been right about leaving so late in the afternoon. They probably should have waited until morning.

Still, he hadn't wanted to risk whatever stupidity she might attempt. She already seemed to think little of poisoning herself. Not to mention, it would seem that the captain was alive. While Claude was reasonably certain the man would not bother with rescuing the gypsy, Esmeralda's blindness in that area might prompt her to attempt some daring escape that could get herself killed.

Unfortunately, the priest would soon learn that he _still _managed to underestimate his wife's determination.

--

Esmeralda concentrated on steadying her breathing, trying to emulate the even, regular breaths of sleep, and forced her eyes to stay shut, even as she inwardly shuddered at the priest's proximity.

He _still _wasn't asleep, which frustrated Esmeralda greatly. He seemed perfectly content to lie next to her, occasionally stroking her furrowed brow with his fingertips. But she had to be patient. And so she tolerated his touch, knowing that it was far more intimate than she was comfortable with and yet silently thankful that he was not going any further.

Eventually he stopped and drifted off to sleep. Esmeralda let out a deep breath of relief, and yet forced herself to remain by his side for another hour, just to be sure.

She could not risk having him wake up before morning. She had all night cover the distance they had traveled in those few hours… but she was on foot, instead of horseback, so she would need every last second if she were to make it back to the city before _he _could catch up to her.

She also had to contend with the lack of light to travel by. When she considered this, she came to the conclusion that she would rather take her chances with the night than risk waking the priest by lighting a torch. But, it was an added complication that worried her, still.

In the end, though, Esmeralda was extremely lucky. Or--if she felt like being spiteful--her captor's God was not as sympathetic to his wishes as he had tried to make her believe.

Whatever the reason, she managed to traverse the dirt road by the light of the moon and stars and avoid the attentions of both highway bandits and dangerous, nocturnal animals.

--

Phoebus decided that he was absolutely in love. Granted, he was almost always in love with one woman or another, but that was beside the point. He liked being in love. His heart despised vacuums, so he simply made sure to keep it filled as much as possible. It was only right, after all.

But this time he was definitely in love for real. He had taken Fleur-de-Lys for granted before. She was elegant and well mannered and beautiful. And, more importantly, she turned a blind eye whenever he groped her handmaidens and always accepted his implausible excuses for why it was necessary for him to stay out for the better part of the night and come home displaying some level of inebriation.

Oh yes. She would be the perfect wife.

It was for that reason that he only gave minor objections when she pleaded for him to take her on an early morning ride through the town, reasoning that it might be their last time to see the sunrise together before he had to return to his duties as captain (one could only claim infirmity for so long before arousing suspicion, after all).

And so, silently cursing the morning-headache-of-recent-indiscretions, Phoebus mounted his horse and escorted Fleur-de-Lys, her bridesmaids, and her ever-scowling mother, down the streets of Paris.

So wrapped up in his current love was he that he did not recognize one of his past loves as she came hurtling down the road, calling his name.

"PHOEBUS!" she cried, "Phoebus, my love! I have found you. Please, help me!"

Fleur sniffed haughtily. She knew _exactly _who the young woman was and had not yet forgiven her for attempting to steal her captain away all those months ago. "Phoebus, love… who is _that_?"

One of the bridesmaids giggled behind her hand. "Perhaps you mean--_what _is that?"

This launched a wave of sniggers from the entire of party. Phoebus flushed, humiliated that this wild gypsy woman was making a fool out of him in front of his betrothed.

Phoebus sneered. "I assure you, my dear, I have no idea."

"But Phoebus!" the gypsy insisted, "It is me! Your little Esmeralda!"

A brief flash of recognition crossed his face. "Similar?" he whispered, mispronouncing her name in the demeaning way that Esmeralda had always found so charming.

"You _do _remember! I forgive you for forgetting, though--you must have thought I was dead. But I am not! I am alive and you are alive and now we can finally be together!"

But Phoebus was not as excited as the little dancer at their reunion. On the contrary, he was rather more concerned with the young woman on the horse beside him who was, at present, seething with jealousy.

And, honestly! The woman nearly caused his death! His memory of _that night _was a little blurred, but at least he remembered enough to know that _she _was responsible for the jagged scar above his collarbone.

_A near miss, with that one! _he told himself. She may have been a pretty thing, but the little witch was undoubtedly more trouble than she was worth.

_And now she doesn't even have that beauty to call upon! _Phoebus gave Esmeralda a surreptitious look up and down. Wherever she had been, these last few months… it was not kind to her. She was so thin… her soft, youthful curves were replaced with jutting bones and visible ribs. Her golden skin was pale and she had bruise-like bags under her dulled black eyes.

Fleur's pleasure was evident. She had experienced the slightest annoyance when she believed the gypsy had 'died' in prison and she would be denied the vindication of seeing the husband-stealing whore humiliated at the gallows. But this… this was even better. The girl was obviously crushed, and Phoebus apparently didn't even _remember _her!

"Why, Phoebus," she said with mock curiosity, "it appears to know you."

"Nonsense, my dear. I have never seen this creature in my life," he assured her.

Esmeralda gave an anguished sob. "That is not possible! We loved each other. I love you still! Oh, do not be angry with me, my captain. I have waited for you. All this time, I have thought of no other."

"You must be mistaken, mademoiselle. Please desist at once, or I shall have you arrested."

Fleur-de-Lys whined, "_Phoebus_, do something. It is ruining our ride."

In one last desperate attempt to make him admit to the recognition she saw in his eyes, Esmeralda threw herself at the captain, clinging to his leg as he sat upon his charger.

"Do not forsake me, Phoebus! I am still your Esmeralda… your Similar… whatever you want to call me, I am yours."

Suddenly enraged, the officer kicked out his leg at the woman, striking his gold spur against her face and knocking her to the ground.

"Get away from me, witch! I say that I do not know you!"

The party turned down the street and trotted away, their horses splashing muddy water on the dejected girl as they passed.

--

"Get out, I say. You boys have had enough!"

And sturdy woman ejected two stumbling men from her establishment. They were students, but spent an outrageous amount of money on the drink and women she provided, so she tended to tolerate their antics more than usual. Still, enough was enough, the drunken young men had stayed so far into the night that the sun had started to come up again. Not to mention, her harassed little serving boy had collapsed in exhaustion in a pile of ash by the fire. Poor boy.

But, more importantly, they had run out of money.

The young men in question staggered out into the street, using each other and the walls to hold themselves upright.

"How dare the… the… that _woman. _She has no notion of Christian charity. How dare she cast us out, thus?"

The man's companion chuckled. "Jehan, my friend, I believe you are drunk."

"Yes… but… but… that not the point! And what am I to do?"

"You could visit the archdeacon of Josas."

He waved off his friend, lazily. "No, I cannot ask my brother for more money. He has yet to forgive me for losing the copy books he bought me."

"I thought you sold those for wine last time we--"

"Sold, lost… what does the precise language matter? The point is… that… the point is… ah…"

Whatever Jehan Frollo had meant to say, it was instantly put aside when he tripped over a large bump in the road. He turned to curse the ground for its offense when he discovered that the bump was not a bump at all. It was a young woman.

"My, my," he said, poking at the bleeding woman and raising his eyebrows when she moaned, "what do we have here?"

--

Claude woke just before dawn when he went to reach for Esmeralda and his hand found nothing but cold ground.

He sat up instantly, rubbing the sleep from his face. He sighed. This was very disappointing… but not surprising. If anything, he cursed his lack of caution. He had plenty of rope, he should have tied her hands to his. But he had been too trusting, and was now paying for it.

With another exasperated sigh, he rose and mounted his horse.

"Come along," he said, patting the beast's neck, "let's go fetch our girl."

It suddenly occurred to him that he was conversing with an animal. He massaged his temples. That gypsy was rather abusive to his tightly stretched sanity.


	12. Chapter 12

Esmeralda woke up again and, after a brief moment of disorientation, was surprised to find herself not in the gutter where she remembered collapsing, but in a far more comfortable place. Her eyes snapped open and she was instantly on guard. In her experience, losing consciousness in one place and awakening in another never turned out well.

"Ah, you are awake!" A voice said. Esmeralda shuddered, recognizing _that _voice.

"Well don't just lie there," the voice continued, "Get up, girl, and speak."

She scowled. No, something was not right. It was not _his _voice she was hearing. It was similar… but, lighter somehow, less guarded. Whoever this was seemed to be a combination of annoyed and amused.

"Who are you?" Esmeralda asked groggily. Why did her head hurt so badly?

"That is a rather improper thing to say, considering it is _my _bed you are bleeding all over."

"Bleeding? What--" she tried to sit up but fell back down with a groan. She hurt _everywhere_.

Surprisingly, he _laughed_. "Do not trouble yourself with it. That mattress has seen worse things." At this Esmeralda cringed and bid her mind not to think of whatever it was he could be implying. "I mean to buy another one someday, if I can ever convince my brother to give me the money. He is terribly stingy like that."

"Where am I?"

"Are you mad, girl, or just an imbecile? I told you that you were in my bed."

"Yes, yes… but, how did I get here?"

"Ah… now that is a different question entirely. You should have said that in the first place." At his teasing, Esmeralda gave a little frustrated sob. That seemed to change his demeanor ever so slightly. "I apologize," he said. "I happen to be suffering from the aftereffects of my evening of revelry, and I am unaccustomed to sleeping on the floor unless I have first fallen unconscious. Besides that," he added with a leer, "usually when I awake with a woman in my bed it is under different circumstances."

This boy was rather crass, Esmeralda decided, but in a comfortably familiar sort of way. The men of her gypsy tribe were the exact opposite of polite society. They treated her well enough--better than most, when she thought about it--but her brothers spoke and guffawed loudly and told stories that would make delicate flowers like that insipid _Fleur-de-Lys _keel over in an instant.

Esmeralda snarled at the thought of her rival--not even noticing the way her companion recoiled at the expression. Slowly she began to recall what had happened to bring her to this point.

"So, are you going to tell me your name?" the young man asked.

She peered at him for a moment, not sure if she should trust him. He looked harmless enough--probably not much older than herself, she noted--but she noticed some books strewn about the room. A scholar, then? A student of the university? It did not especially matter--recent events inclined her to distrust people who could read. She hadn't exactly had good experiences with men of intellect, after all.

Then again, the silly Gringoire fellow could read, and he'd been kind enough. But her odd pretend-husband had been next to useless when it really mattered.

Then again, from the empty bottles and clothing thrown down haphazardly alongside his other belongings--well, he was obviously not _too _scholarly.

"I am Esmeralda," she said after her short deliberation. "And you are?"

"Jehan Frollo du Moulin, at your service madamoiselle."

Esmeralda tensed. Hesitantly she asked, "Are you familiar with the archdeacon of Josas?"

"He is my brother."

"I have to go," she said suddenly, rushing to stand despite her instant lightheadedness and lack of balance. Jehan took her arm to steady her, only to be forcefully shaken off.

"My goodness, you are skittish as a mouse!" he exclaimed as he watched her panic. In a moment, Esmeralda found a black bottle of wine shoved into her hand. "Here," the young man said, "this will help."

The frightened gypsy wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He was being so kind to her--more than should be expected from a stranger--and, as of yet, had required nothing of her but to know her name.

But there must be some catch to this--some joke. This generosity could not be genuine. He _had _to have something more terrible in mind. He was family to the most evil man alive. Surely two brothers could not be so very different.

She swallowed a mouthful of the wine anyway. It did help.

"Better now?" he asked. She nodded. "Good. Now, as I was going to say… haven't I heard that name before? It seems awfully familiar. Wasn't there a dancer who went by that name? Oh yes! I know… a pretty little gypsy girl, if I remember correctly. Could you---"

"NO! I… no… I do not know of her. I am… not from here."

As Jehan looked Esmeralda up and down, she couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. Would he connect her with the gypsy dancer? The girl who was tried for witchcraft and had died in prison? The priest was correct in his threat to her--she truly was dead as far as the world was concerned. A supposed 'resurrection' would make matters infinitely worse for her.

But he did not seem to recognize her, which disturbed her in its own way. Had she changed so much?

"Not from here, eh? What has brought you to Paris, then?"

"A man… a man who believes himself to be in love with me. But he was wicked and evil, so I ran away. But then I was attacked in the street. How long was I asleep?"

He shrugged. "Long enough that I am no longer as drunk as I'd like to be. 'Tis a terrible story you have told me, Esmeralda, and you have my pity. The question now is--what to do with you?

Just then there was a loud pounding on the door.

Jehan stepped out of the bedroom and into another room, out of Esmeralda's sight. She waited and tried to listen, but all she could make out was the quiet rumbling of male voices. This continued for four or five long minutes until the door swung open once again and Jehan returned with his visitor.

The robed guest slowly removed his cowl, revealing what Esmeralda had dreaded most. Her archdeacon had come.

"It would seem, my brother," Claude murmured, "that I will not be needing your assistance after all."

--

Seeing them side by side, Esmeralda got a chance to really compare the brothers. Jehan was three or four inches shorter, his hair two or three shades lighter, and his eyes younger and more amused. He seemed broader, too--still rather lean but not skeletal like his brother. He wasn't just younger, but he carried an ease that suggested he'd had none of the hardship and self-denial that the archdeacon subjected to himself. Claude scowled at her with eyes hard as diamonds; Jehan wore an impudent, lopsided grin that implied he might just start laughing at any moment.

Life held no fairness for the little dancer. If someone had to fall mad with love for her, why could it not be the younger of the two brothers?

With a deceptively soft tone, and without looking away from the trembling girl, Claude addressed his brother. "A moment alone, Jehan, if you would."

"But what of the money you promised me? It is hardly my fault that---"

"Do not trouble me with your destitution right now. We will discuss that shortly. Please leave."

Jehan grumbled, looking more childish than he had before, but departed from the room.

They were alone.

"Esmeralda," he said. So much seemed to be packed into that single word--relief, frustration, joy, fury. It made Esmeralda wonder how one could make her name mean so many different things. He spoke as if he loved the sound of her name. He could make it a rebuke or a prayer, but he always used her name with deliberation… as if it was special to him. As if it was not the type of thing to throw around thoughtlessly. She had always liked her name for its uniqueness, but she kept that bit of vanity to herself--she never expected someone to take notice of it the same way. Phoebus couldn't even remember it---

_Phoebus_.

"He never truly loved me, did he?" she asked so pitifully. The archdeacon considered her for a moment, trying to decide if she was speaking to anyone in particular. Her eyes were glassy and fixed on some invisible point above his head. She did not seem real, somehow. Claude found himself very afraid to touch her.

He cleared his throat. "You are injured."

The broken gypsy looked away, hiding the trickling gash from his view. "He pushed me," she answered hollowly. "I thought he loved me… did he ever love me?"

Claude did not answer. Confirming her realization at this point would be cruel. And, while Claude had long decided that he was not opposed to cruelty… now did not seem the time.

He reached out and took her chin firmly, gently forcing her to face him. He ran a long finger from her temple down to her chin. She did not flinch, to Claude's surprise. She did not seem to be paying much attention to his presence at all. He left her briefly and returned with a damp cloth, which he used to clean the blood and grime from her face.

"It will scar," he said at last.

This did bring the gypsy out of her stupor. Esmeralda paled at the idea of a scar on her face. Not because she worried for her complexion--the concept of beauty never seemed as trivial as it did right now--but because she knew that, every time she saw her reflection, she would be reminded of how she had been deceived. Every time someone looked at her, they would be able to see the sign of her foolishness. Of course, _they _would not know what it was… but she would. And she found herself feeling extremely ill.

Without much warning, Esmeralda began to sob in full force. This was not _fair_, nor was it _right_. This should not be happening to her.

Claude continued to look at her coldly--her tears had lost their effect on him--but produced a small vial from his pocket.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, knowing full well she did not. "It is oil. A special oil that might help to prevent any scarring on your face."

He did not know what reaction he expected for his offer, but he found irritation blossoming when he saw how her watery eyes narrowed. Why did she continue to distrust him when he was standing before her, despite his anger and her betrayal, offering something she desired?

"What is it you want?" she countered. The man she knew would not offer such kindness without a price. She was sure of it.

His eyes glittered a moment as he considered her words. In the end he answered, "Two conditions: that I will be the one to apply it and…"

"And what?"

"That you will return to me without protest." He was careful not to say 'willingly' as even he was not so deluded as to believe that she would make _that _concession. Not yet, anyway.

Esmeralda considered his offer. Without Phoebus… her hope was gone. And her reason for leaving had lost some of its passion. Granted, she still wished to be free… but freedom, without Phoebus, seemed… less bright, somehow. Like a shadow had dulled her greatest desire.

"If I refuse?" she asked.

The priest's lips curled into a humorless smile. "Then I shall take you anyway," he said without pity. "Now that I am certain that you will flee from me--I am no longer above the use of force. My gentleness for you is growing thin. My pity as well, as you have shown me none. If you thought me cruel before, you would _despise _me then, for I would no longer permit the small freedoms I so generously granted before this… this… betrayal."

The gypsy felt her heart speed up. What had happened to him? What had become of the man who raged at her in fury or fell weeping at her feet? This controlled manner of his speech, this passionless demeanor, frightened her more than she thought possible. It reminded her of the men who stood by, unmoved by her screams, as the torturer slowly crushed her foot. Had he lost his fervency? Or was it still there, stirring under the surface, waiting for a moment of true privacy between them.

A slight whimper issued from the back of her throat; her voice wavered as she spoke, "And if I agree?"

His eyes softened--almost imperceptivity--and she exhaled. When he spoke next, his voice deepened and lost its harsh edge.

"If you agree, I shall consider this a lesson learned, and I will allow us to forget this incident. I love you, Esmeralda. You choose to ignore it… but I love you. Consider your decision, for I am offering you more than the healing of your wound. I offer you forgiveness--something I have extended to no other. This is your one chance. If you refuse, you will not be offered such mercy from me again."

His words translated clearly: she was coming with him, regardless. But she could choose whether the next few days were pleasant (well, relatively speaking) or unbearable.

The little dancer hesitated. Her pride told her to fight him all the way. But that pride was so tarnished from her recent, violent rejection that she felt less compelled to listen to it. Esmeralda found herself feeling tired… so very, very tired. Everything seemed to matter less and less with each passing moment. Surely it couldn't hurt to give in… to let him win just this once.

She could always change her mind later.

Right?

She looked up again to see the priest's eyes narrowing and she could see a tick in his jaw--indicating he was not as restrained as he made it seem. He was growing irritated with her hesitation. It was the potential danger she saw in him was the deciding factor.

"I accept."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N - I have made** **a few changes to the previous chapters so the future ones will make sense. Just small things, here and there... probably not enough to merit re-reading, but if you come across something in this chapter that doesn't seem to add up with the others, feel free to ask and I'll explain.**

**Extra special thanks to DocM for all your ideas and for helping me solidify a direction for this story. You're brilliant.**

**Thanks for reading!  
**

* * *

Claude mounted the horse, directly behind Esmeralda, and pulled her tightly against his chest, hissing ever so slightly as he did so.

Esmeralda attempted to look at him, shifting against him even more. "What--"

"It is nothing!" he bit out irritably. The tension of the day and so many sudden movements had tugged on his ever-healing wounds. And the press of her back against him aggravated the tender skin further. And yet, he was loath to move her. Instead, he ran idle fingers down her bare arm, ignoring her shudder.

He found some satisfaction that the girl did not complain against his attentions. She had already caused him so much frustration today, he deserved the slight reprieve.

He had a mixture of feelings over having found her in Jehan's care. It certainly made finding her convenient, but it meant giving up more than he intended--both in information and compensation.

And the humiliation!

Locating Esmeralda had seemed simple as he rode back into the city that morning, but the instant he left the barren country roads and looked up at the sheer _size _that was the city of Paris, he could not help but feel overwhelmed. There were so many places she could be hiding! Why did he think retrieving his bride would be a straightforward endeavor?

And what if she was not hiding at all! What if she had been arrested or kidnapped or injured? Claude forcibly shoved the idea that she could be dead from his mind. The gypsy girl was his sanity… and his madness. He did not know what he would do if she had been killed. He refused to entertain that thought--although, it was a very real possibility. She was a condemned witch, supposedly dead already. Paris may have loved her once, but a love such as their's only spread so far.

Esmeralda's return to the city that damned her presented a danger to real to ignore.

And so there he was, wandering aimlessly through the city streets, fighting his rising panic and attempting to think of an appropriate prayer for this sort of situation.

He found none.

And yet, as if God heard his unspoken plea and was moved, Claude was struck with an idea. His brother.

Jehan knew the vulgar side of the city better than anyone. If anyone would be able to assist him, it would be his wayward brother.

The men of Claude's own circle only knew of Esmeralda in an intellectual sense--as a simple girl proven to be a witch and rightfully condemned--and had likely forgotten about her by now, as anticlimactic as her death had been. And even if they _did _remember her, and he concocted a believable enough lie to secure their cooperation without widespread panic or accusatory questions (a practical impossibility in its own right!), the type of places Esmeralda might hide were unfamiliar to men of their standing.

But Jehan… yes, he would know exactly what to do. For once, Claude found himself smiling at the boy's less than upstanding behavior.

But would he be discreet?

Well, perhaps it did not matter. Retrieving Esmeralda would take priority, and then he would simply disappear. Let the people condemn the archdeacon of Josas! He would cease to exist in a few days. Soon he would merely be Claude Frollo, landowner and devoted husband. His reputation could burn, for all he cared.

So he told himself.

It was early, yet, so he had pounded harder than usual on his brother's door, hoping the noise would be enough to wake the boy.

The door opened sooner than he expected by a Jehan who was far more alert than he expected.

"Oho, brother!" the young man said, looking as if he was on the verge of laughter. He was undoubtedly surprised to see his older sibling looking so frantic. "Do you wish to wake my neighbors? It is too early to be making such a racket. I would have expected much more from---"

"Do not mock me, Jehan," the priest hissed, looking murderous at his brother's attitude. "I am here because I am in need of your help."

"Is that so?" Jehan asked, still teasing, though colored with a growing tinge of curiosity. "And what would my great brother the archdeacon want with a lowly student?"

"I wish to make use of your… connections. Possibly you could speak to some of your companions at _Falourdel's_ or---"

"The tavern?" he responded in mock surprise. "What business would I have in a place like that?"

Claude sighed and gave him a look of sorely tried patience. "My brother… you may think me ignorant of your more unscholarly pursuits." Jehan had opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by a motion of Claude's hand. "But… I am not so blind as to think that you have actually _lost all three _copies of Horace I have provided you."

"Well, if you remember correctly, only the first copy was lost… I am certain the other was stolen and the last---"

"Hush now. I have not come to lecture you. As I have said, I am in need of your direction."

"So you say," he answered, not bothering to hide his interest. "What do you need from me?"

"I am looking for a woman---"

"Ah! Now _there _is something I can help with!"

"A _certain _woman. She was… traveling with me… and ran away."

"Traveling… ran away? Claude, what have you done?"

He scowled. "Never mind that! I have not come to you for a lecture, I have come because I need your help."

At these familiar words, Jehan gave a wicked smile. "My, my… how matters have changed! How many times have I said those same words to _you_?"

"What can I do to end this madness with you right now, Jehan, and return to the topic at hand?"

Jehan responded to his brothers bluntness with his own. "I am out of money."

"Of course you are."

"Will you let me starve?"

Claude gave him a hard look before answering. "Certainly not. If you help me find my… this woman… I would be willing to… compensate you for your time."

"A fine promise, indeed… but will I be able to find _you _when I find her? I have come to see you several times now, brother, and you have been unavailable." The young man was whining--Claude merely arched an eyebrow and reminded him of such; he bowed his head and blushed.

Assured his brother was properly abashed, Claude admitted, "I have been… preoccupied…"

"And now you mention traveling… since when do you go anywhere?"

"I have decided to relocate."

"To…"

"Our manor in Tirechappe. With… with my wife."

_Wife? _Jehan mouthed incredulously. Then he shook his head comically, like a dog with ear mites. "Come in, come in… it would seem we have much to talk about."

Claude nodded soberly and followed Jehan into the little house, doing his best not to sneer at the utter disorganization of the boy's living space.

To his surprise, however, he looked up to find the very object of his obsession sitting mere steps away from him.

"It would seem, my brother, that I will not be needing your assistance after all."

Esmeralda had been looking forward, seeming to stare through rather than at the brothers as they conversed in hushed tones.

"_This _is the woman you spoke of?"

"It is."

"So… so then _you _are the man she is running from."

"It stands to reason."

"But…" he whispered conspiratorially, finding this situation far more entertaining than the other occupants of the room, "she says you are wicked and _evil_."

The archdeacon clenched his fists as wave after wave of frustration and jealous anger assaulted his senses. Where had this come from? Never before had he felt jealousy for his younger brother before… and rational thought prompted him to recognize that no crime had occurred on his part.

And yet the sight of _her_, sitting on _his _bed, had prompted images of debauched and traitorous acts between the two people he loved the most. And the very notion bled into fantasies of him falling upon his brother with a knife and shredding his skin until his innards sprang forth--the same thing he had fantasized about doing to that wretched captain but did not have the ability to complete--and then taking the girl roughly while the boy's body twitched and gasped nearby.

Claude nearly stumbled back by the force of his lungs tightening. _These thoughts! Of my own brother… of…_

Not for the first time, he felt as if he was not himself.

_What is happening to me? _

Was it the gypsy? Surely it had to be. And yet he believed he had determined she was not a witch. But then how was she causing these… hallucinations? There was no explanation.

Suddenly he felt extremely dizzy; he placed an icy hand on his forehead to sooth the ever-present burn there.

Still staring at the trembling girl, Claude addressed his brother. "A moment alone, Jehan, if you would."

"But what of the money you promised me? It is hardly my fault that---"

Claude snapped, "Do not trouble me with your destitution right now." He could not continue to converse with his brother, not with the troubled thoughts he was having. He needed Jehan away from him immediately. He fought the stomach turning notion that his brother was not safe with him. "We will discuss that shortly. Please leave."

The boy had grumbled, but obeyed, and Claude's spirit sighed with relief.

Now that they were alone, Claude could shut Jehan from his mind and concentrate on the more important matter of his wife.

The girl had been injured. And she had seemed to come to a conclusion about her captain that caused her much heartbreak. The combination of the blood on her temple and the lifelessness in her eyes wrought concern from him enough to chase the unwelcome violence from his mind. What had the poor child suffered in the hours that he had been unable to protect her?

He appealed to the girl's vanity, and had mixed feelings about the way such a prompt was enough to wrench her from her stupor.

She cried, but Claude would not allow himself to be moved. A time would come when he would be able to embrace her and comfort her without pause. But for now he would resist her manipulative cries for pity and see to her physical wounds.

_Yes. Logical thoughts. That is correct and good._ Claude had nearly smiled; his dizziness and nausea subsided as busied himself as her physician.

Now, Claude remembered with a smirk, he had not been so clinical that he did not take the opportunity of Esmeralda's dependence to secure a promise from her. He winced again as her back rubbed against his chest. This trip would be a difficult one, he decided, pulling her tighter against him despite the pain. Her nearness caused much discomfort, both painful and… ahem… otherwise. And yet the endurance would be worth it--for she had agreed to obey him willingly.

Of course, he wondered when her lying, gypsy ways would lead her to break her promise. But for now, she was _his_.

Jehan had proven to be but a minor hindrance, in the end. Once Claude was satisfied that he could speak to him again without dangerous thoughts, that is--Esmeralda's cooperation had helped him stabilize himself. Of course the young man whined and begged for money, but Claude found himself in such a brightened mood by then that he did not even consider denying him.

"This should be enough to last you," he had said, tossing a heavy purse to the young man.

"Last until when?" Jehan replied. The reality of his brother's departure had just set in and he was wondering where he would be acquiring his money from now on.

"Until you are able to secure another source of income."

He scoffed. "But brother! I thought you would be the one to sponsor my studies. What else would you have me do? We are family… you are my elder brother, head of our household…"

"You speak the truth," Claude had said, giving him an odd smile. He looked to Esmeralda, and placed his hand on the small of her back, looking wistful. "It may be some time before we meet again. It… pains me… that I will not be near to observe you in your learning. I shall miss our chats together. But your teachers are more than competent and…"

"The devil with _teachers_," the boy grumped, "It's money I need!"

"I give you the fief of Moulin, which I had inherited from our father. I will arrange that you be sent all monies from those lands. That should give you a dependable income, that you might learn to ration your money wisely."

"Moulin? But that hardly makes enough worth mentioning! Now, if I had the fief of Tirechappe, I could---"

"Do not be greedy, Jehan, I have offered you more than is required of me. I would see you taken care of and allowed to continue your schooling, even in my absence."

Jehan wheedled for a few minutes more but had given in in the end--the purse in addition to the promise of property income was a generous gift indeed.

Besides… he could always make a little trip of his own if he ever found himself impoverished enough.


End file.
